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umber 106. SUBSCRIPTION PRICE $12.00 PER YEAR. April 14, 1892. 

CASSELL’S SUNSHINE SERIES, ISSUED SEMI-MONTHLY. 


ON THE RACK 


A NOVEL 


EY 

WILLIAM C. HUDSON 

AUTHOR OF “THE DIAMOND BUTTON,” “ JACK GORDON, KNIGHT ERRANT, 
GOTHAM, 1883 ,” “ VIVIER, OF VIVIER, LONGMAN & CO., BANKERS,” 
“the man with a thumb,” etc., etc. 


NEW YORK 

CASSELL PUBLISHING COMPANY 

104 & 106 FOURTH AVENUE 


Entered at the Post Office, New York, N. Y., as Second Class Matter, Mayn, 1888. 



WORKS OF 


W. C. H U DSON 

(BARCLAY NORTH). 


‘‘Few story-writers have jumped so quickly into popular favor as 

W. C. Hudson (Barclay North) There is a rattle and a dash 

about everything that he writes, and a contemporaneous interest that 

never fails to please the reader as well as to hold his attention.” 

THE DIAMOND BUTTON: WHOSE WAS TT ? 

A Tale from the Diary of a Lawyer and the Notebook of a 
Reporter. By W. C. Hudson (Barclay t North), i vol., 
i2mo, cloth, 75 cents ; paper, 50 cents. 

“ A pronounced success.” — Albany Express. 

JACK GORDON, KNIGHT-ERRANT, GOTHAM, 1883. 

By W. C. Hudson (Barclay North). 1 vol., i2mo, cloth, 75 cents; 
paper, 50 cents. 

“ A capital piece of work.” — Pittsburg Dispatch. 

VIVIER, OF VIVIER, LONGMAN & CO., BANKERS. 

By W. C. Hudson (Barclay North). 1 vol., i2mo, cloth, 75 cents; 
paper, 50 cents. 

“ The stcry contains not a single dull page.” — Ohio. State Journal. 

THE MAN WITH A THUMB. 

By W. C. Hudson (Barclay North). 1 vol., i2mo, cloth, 75 cents; 
paper, 50 cents. 

“ Holds the attention to the last page.” — Cleveland Plaindealer. 

ON THE RACK. 

By W. C. Hudson (Barclay North). 1 vol., T2mo, cloth, 75 cents; 
paper, 50 cents. 

CASSELL PUBLISHING COMPANY 

104 & 106 Fourth Avenue, New York. 


42 




ON THE RACK 

A NOVEL 



WILLIAM C. HUDSON 

n 

AUTHOR OF “THE DIAMOND BUTTON,” “ JACK GORDON, KNIGHT ERRANT 
GOTHAM, 1883,” “ VIVIER, OF VIVIER, LONGMAN & CO., BANKERS,” 
“THE MAN WITH A THUMB,” ETC., ETC. 






NEW YORK 

CASSELL PUBLISHING COMPANY 

104 & 106 FOURTH AVENUE 


x\ 





/ . 


r ^ ^ . <gf 


Copyright, 1891, by 

CASSELL PUBLISHING COMPANY. 


All rights reserved. 






THE MERSHON COMPANY PRESS. 
RAHWAY, N. J. 


' I 



CONTENTS 


CHAPTER 

PAGE 

I. 

“ Dead, My Masters,” . 

. . . . I 

II. 

Two Friends, 

5 

III. 

Reconciled, 


IV. 

A Frustrated Intrigue, 

20 

V. 

Friends Indeed, . 


VI. 

The Arrest, .... 

35 

VII. 

A Valuable Aid, 

. 47 

VIII. 

Active Friendship, . . . 

56 

IX. 

Marion’s Revelation, 

62 

X. 

Tom Takes Charge, 

74 

XI. 

To the Rescue, . 

• . . . 83 

XII. 

The Strength of Weakness, . 

92 

XIII. 

A Rift in the Clouds, 

. 107 

XIV. 

A Great Blunder, . 

115 

XV. 

A Flank Movement, . 

. . . . 128 

XVI. 

Anxious Days, 

. . . 138 

XVII. 

The Dawn Breaks, 

. 148 

XVIII. 

Lights and Shadows, 

156 

XIX. 

“Bucky” Mallon, 

. 165 

XX. 

Brightening Skies, . 

174 

XXI. 

The Trial Begins, 

iii 

. 182 


iv CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER PAGE 

XXII. The First Day, 192 

XXIII. In Good Earnest, 206 

XXIV. Marion Tells Her Story, . . . .218 

XXV. Marion’s Triumph, 231 

XXVI. The Defense Begins, 239 

XXVII. On the Rack, ...... 248 

XXVIII. Summing Up, 256 

XXIX. A Revelation, 270 

I 

XXX. Solved, . 281 


ON THE RACK 


CHAPTER I. 

“ DEAD, MY MASTERS.” 

I T was early in the morning of the first day of the year 
187-, before it was yet light. 

An officer, patrolling his beat on Twentieth Street, 
nearly fell over an obstacle in his path. The obstacle 
was in the shadow of a huge pile of bricks heaped up in 
the street and was, therefore, unobserved by him until 
he stumbled upon it. 

A glance determined it to be the body of a man. 
Supposing he had been celebrating the departure of the 
old year “ not wisely, but too well,” the officer advised 
him in no gentle terms to get up. Receiving no re- 
sponse, the officer tried to arouse him by beating a 
“ tattoo ” upon the soles of his boots. This having no 
effect, it occurred to the officer that this obstinate insen- 
sibility might result Jrom a cause other than that of 
alcohol, especially since the night was cold. He made a 
closer examination. 

Evidently the man was dead ! 

How ? 

Springing to the curbstone he sounded the alarm for 
assistance. The officer of the adjoining beat, already 
awaiting the first officer on the next corner, came rap- 
idly, in answer to the imperative call. 

1 


2 


ON THE RACK. 


“What is it ?” he cried, as he approached. 

“ A dead body.” 

At the moment the second officer struck something on 
the pavement with his foot, sending it spinning toward 
the curbstone, where it glistened in the light of the flar- 
ing gas, giving forth, as it moved, a metallic sound. 

Following it up, the second officer found it to be a 
revolver. He carried it under the light of the gas across 
the street, the first officer going, too. 

“ A small gun,” he said. “ One cartridge is gone.” 

“Killed my man, I guess,” said the first officer. 
“ Foul work.” 

“ Or suicide,” replied the other. 

“ Whatever it is, we must report it. Do you take the 
gun to the station house, report my find, and bring a 
stretcher back.” 

The distance to the station house not being far, the 
vigil of the first officer was brief. While waiting he had 
endeavored to discover some evidence that the man had 
been foully dealt with. In the uncertain light he could 
find no signs ; he was thus engaged when the second 
officer returned with the stretcher and two assistants. 

The police surgeon had been immediately summoned, 
when the report was made, and so was awaiting the 
officers when they arrived with their burden. 

“ The man is dead,” he said, at the first glance. Ex- 
amining the body, he added, “ and has been for several 
hours.’* 

He discovered a wound in the right temple, and point- 
ing to it, said : 

“ A shot in the temple. Death instantaneous. The 
muzzle of the barrel was pressed close to the temple. 
Self-inflicted I should say. I can do no good here.” 

He went away and the sergeant in charge ordered a 


“DEAD MY MASTERS 


3 


search of the body. A man in plain clothes, who had 
been standing just within the door, leaning upon the rail- 
ing which ran in front of the high desk at which the 
sergeant sat, while the surgeon was making his examina- 
tion, stepped forward as the search was begun, taking 
up a position between the searchers and the desk. 

As the various articles were taken from the dead 
man’s clothes he received them, closely inspecting each, 
and then turned them over to the sergeant, who made 
memoranda. 

These things were found : A ring of little value, pos- 
sibly a souvenir ; a gold watch, not new, with a tarnished 
chain ; a check for twenty-five dollars, drawn by Clar- 
ence Fellows to the order of self, and indorsed by 
Clarence Fellows. 

These articles disposed of the idea that robbery had 
been the purpose back of the shooting. 

Further search revealed a few letters, all of them ad- 
dressed to Clarence Fellows, either at No. — Twenty- 
first Street, or to the care of Evans, Whitney & Co., No. 
— White Street ; a card case containing visiting cards, 
bearing the same name ; a pocket-knife, old and bat- 
tered, on which was engraved the name H. Marsh. 

When the searchers were done, the man in plain 
clothes bent over the dead body, closely examining the 
dress of the man. The others watched him silently. 
When he straightened up he went back to the railing 
and leaned against it as before. He had not spoken a 
word. 

The sergeant directed the removal of the body. When 
the sergeant and the man in plain clothes were alone, 
the former turned to the latter with an inquiring expres- 
sion on his face, saying : 

“Well?” 


4 


ON THE RACK . 


“ The man’s name is Clarence Fellows evidently — lives 
at No. — Twenty-first street, and is employed at Evans, 
Whitney & Co.’s in White Street — either is employed or 
is a partner — perhaps the latter — as there are signs of 
prosperity about the man.” 

“ Did you see this revolver,” asked the sergeant, and 
at the same time extending it as he spoke. 

“ Let me look at it,” replied the man in plain clothes, 
taking it. “ Where was this found ? ” 

“ On the pavement not far from the body.” 

“ Can you tell just where ? ” 

“No, nor no one else. Harrigan reports that as he 
was running, in answer to Martin’s call for assistance, he 
kicked it with his foot.” 

“ Ah ! ” replied the other, minutely inspecting the lit- 
tle weapon in all its parts. Suddenly he asked, “ What 
is that letter signed ? — the one without an envelope?” 

“ Frank Pemberton,” replied the sergeant, as he 
opened the letter and turned to the signature. 

“ Read it,” said the other. 

Our quarrel has lasted long enough. I grow indignant when I 
think how causeless it is. Grant me an interview of ten minutes and 
I will, within that time, prove to you that absolutely no reason for 
difference exists, and that we are both of us fools. 

The man in plain clothes, placing his finger on the 
metal below the trigger, stepped up beside the sergeant, 
who leaned over to better see what the other was point- 
ing out. With surprise in his tones, he exclaimed : 

“ Frank Pemberton ! ” 

With a smile, the man in plain clothes handed the re- 
volver back, saying : 

“ I don’t think it will be a difficult case. You’d better 
report the affair to headquarters and tell them I hap- 
pened here at the time.” Then he added : “I have been 


TWO FRIENDS. 


5 


up all night. I suppose they’ll put this inquiry upon 
me. Can I lay down for a little sleep on the lounge in 
the next room ? ” 

“ Of course,” replied the sergeant. 

He left the room as the sergeant busied himself with 
his report. He was a member of the detective force, by 
accident happening in the station house as the body 
was brought in. 


CHAPTER IT. 

TWO FRIENDS. 

F RANK PEMBERTON and Clarence Fellows were 
friends. 

They had entered the employ of the same house about 
the same time some fifteen years prior to the opening of 
this story. 

In the mean time, from being little more than messen- 
ger lads, they had advanced e.ach to be the head of his 
own department. They were inseparable in their lei- 
sure hours, pursuing together their pleasures and studies. 

In persons, minds, and temperaments, they were utterly 
unlike. Frank was tall, fair, and handsome ; Clarence, 
stout, dark, and very plain. Frank was quick in his per- 
ceptions and comprehensions, somewhat superficial, yet 
with all his mental possessions at his ready command ; 
Clarence was slow in his processes, but his mind when 
aroused worked more surely and deeply. Frank was 
impulsive, with engaging manners, laughing eyes, and a 
merry voice. Clarence, cautious, secretive, reserved, and 
inclined to be repellent with strangers. 


6 


ON THE RACK. 


Ambition and determination to succeed in life, how- 
ever, they possessed in common. 

Since they had only their own unaided efforts to rely 
upon, they had succeeded well, for there was no further 
advancement for them unless they were taken into the firm 
as partners — a hope entertained by each, and not without 
reason. 

Frank was the only child of a widow, with whom he 
lived ; Clarence was an orphan. 

During the summer prior to the occurrence of the 
events which give rise to this story, the two friends had 
failed, for the first time since their friendship began, to 
spend their vacation days together. Circumstances com- 
pelled Clarence to go before Frank’s business affairs 
would permit him to leave, or lose his vacation alto- 
gether for the year. So they traveled finally in different 
directions. 

Clarence selected Richfield Springs* for his resting 
place, and before he returned Frank went in search of 
the sea at Nahant. When the latter returned to his 
affairs, he found Clarence had gone abroad on the busi- 
ness of the concern, and he himself went to Chicago to 
assist in the establishment of a branch of the house, be- 
fore Clarence came back. Thus it was that the month 
of November was well spent before they could renew 
their intimate companionship. 

These matters, however trivial they may appear, had 
a marked effect upon the lives of the two young men. 
Could they have followed the custom of years, it is more 
than probable that their lives would have continued in a 
path of uneventful prosperity, happy, if dull. As it was, 
in their separation the seeds of much unhappiness and 
misery were planted. 

The enterprises each had been engaged upon in the 


TWO FRIENDS. 


7 


interest of the firm employing them, were crowned with 
unusual success. Perhaps that is the reason why on 
the first day the two young men met at their place of 
business, they were summoned to the room of the head 
of the concern, and in the presence of all the other mem- 
bers, informed that on the first day of the following year 
they would be admitted to the partnership. 

The possibility of such a desirable result had often, 
during the year, been a theme of conversation between 
them. When they left the office of Mr. Evans, they went 
to Frank’s room to talk over the achievements of their 
ambition. Having discussed their good fortune in all 
its possible bearings, Clarence arose, saying : 

‘‘Well, I have but one more point to make, one more 
ambition to achieve, and then I will consider myself set- 
tled for life.” 

“ And I,” said Frank, with a half laugh, conveying the 
suggestion of a little embarrassment on his part, “ needed 
only this to complete the sum of my happiness. With 
this new relation, I can face the future with tolerable cer- 
tainty and assume certain obligations I am only too 
anxious to take upon myself.” 

Clarence lifted inquiring eyes to the face of his friend, 
expecting him to say more — to tell what those obliga- 
tions were. It was characteristic of their relations, that 
Clarence, always reserving his confidences to the last mo- 
ment, expected Frank to give his without reserve 
immediately. But this time Frank did not. With a 
smile and slightly reddened cheeks, he turned to his 
desk and busied himself with arranging the scattered 
papers. 

Clarence waited an instant, and finding Frank had no 
further communication to make, asked him if he were 
engaged for the evening. 


8 


ON THE RACK . 


Rather evasively Frank replied that he had none be- 
yond the one he was about- to propose to Clarence. 

“ Don’t do it,” replied ‘Clarence. “ Give yourself to 
me to-night. I want you to call with me upon a young 
lady I met last summer at Richfield. She has been away 
since I returned from abroad, but I learned to-day from 
her brother that she is home again. Miss Standish ” 

“ Who ? ” interrupted JFrank, surprise in his tones. 

“ Miss Standish — Miss Marion Standish — I was quite 
attentive to her at Richfield last summer — talked and 
rode with her a good deal.” 

“Why,” laughed Frank, rising from his seat, “curi- 
ously enough Marion Standish is the very person I was 
about to ask you to call upon with me.” 

“You don’t know her ! ” abruptly rejoined Clarence, 
his brows darkening over the familiar manner in which 
Frank spoke of the young lady. 

“ It would be strange if I didn’t,” replied Frank, a little 
boastfully, “ especially, since she is pledged to become 
my wife.” 

What influence, passively as well as actively, a woman 
may exert upon men ! Here were two young men, rivals, 
by the nature of their employments, in the race for wealth 
and advancement, abating not a particle of their friendship, 
while not relaxing a single effort to achieve their ends 
even where their lines seemed to cross, but upon the 
contrary vowing loyalty and helpfulness one to the other. 
Yet no sooner did a young woman enter between them 
than, without explanation or further understanding, they 
faced each other with crests erect, angered, quite willing 
to forget in a moment their friendship, and to fall upon 
each other. 

“You engaged to Marion Standish ! How dare you 
tell me that ? ” 


TWO FRIENDS. 


9 


Clarence was ghastly white, and his voice was hoarse 
with suppressed passion. 

“ Dare ?” cried Frank defiantly. “ How dare you use 
such a tone to me ? ” 

But in a moment he was calm. The spectacle Clar- 
ence presented, vainly struggling with his passion, 
alarmed Frank ; as the idea broke upon him, that 
Clarence, too, loved Marion, he was filled with pity for 
the man so bitterly disappointed. 

“ My God, Clarence ! ” he exclaimed. “ What is the 
meaning of this ? ” 

Clarence caught the tone of pity in Frank’s voice. It 
enraged him. Losing all control, he cried out : 

“ Meaning ! meaning ! It means that you are a vile, 
sneaking traitor. You have treacherously robbed me. 
You have taken advantage of my absence and abused 
your opportunity.” 

The violence with which these words were hurled at 
Frank astounded him, and before he could gather himself 
Clarence again burst forth : 

“ You’ve stolen her from me. She was mine by right — 
by every right.” 

“Hush, hush, man !” said Frank earnestly, scarcely 
comprehending Clarence. “You are wild! You are 
unjust in your grief and passion. Be calm ! ” 

“ Be calm ! ” repeated Clarence, with a bitter laugh, 
and so wild as to have in it almost the ring of insanity. 
“ Be calm ! Oh, yes ! you can give advice. You can 
be calm ! No one has stolen from you the woman you 
loved. Be calm ! Oh, yes ! Your friend — the confi- 
dent of your heart has not betrayed you — has not 
stabbed you in the back.” 

Frank resented this charge. Said he, sternly : 


IO 


ON THE RACK . 


“Be silent ! No one has robbed you. No one has 
stabbed you. I, least of all. ” 

“Did you not steal Marion Standish from me?” 

“No!” 

Frank’s reply was so icily stern that Clarence staggered 
back as if cold water had been thrown in his face. 

“ No ?” repeated Clarence, so carried away by his own 
anger that he was surprised at the reply. 

“ My God ! ” said Frank aloud and to himself, con- 
templating his friend in wonder. “The man actually 
believes his own ravings.” 

Then a wild thought crossed his mind. Had Marion 
given Clarence encouragement during the time they had 
been together at Richfield ? Angered that he should 
entertain such a thought, he asked : 

“ Do you mean to say that Miss Standish has promised 
her hand to you ?” 

“ No, I do not.” 

“ By what right, then, do you accuse me of having 
robbed you of her ? ” demanded Frank, his anger rising 
again. “ Do you pretend she gave you encouragement 
to hope she would ? ” 

“ Encouragement ! ” There was ineffable contempt 
in Clarence’s tones. “ Encouragement ! Was I not at- 
tentive to her last summer ? Did she not receive my 
attentions ? Were they not significant ? Was she not 
pleased with them ? Did I conceal their meaning ? Did 
I not show her how attractive she was to me ? Did I not 
single her out from among all the rest and devote my- 
self to her ? Had she eyes and could she not see ? Had 
she ears and could she not hear? Had she intelligence 
and could she not comprehend ? Encouragement ! ” 

The anger with which Clarence piled up these ques- 
tions upon Frank was marvelous. But the exquisite in- 


TWO FRIENDS . 


II 


tensity of his passion could not blind Frank to their 
weakness or insufficiency. Their effect was to anger 
him. So he replied in a low, strained voice, showing the 
other extreme effect of anger : 

“ I warn you to be careful. The name and fame of 
that lady is in my keeping. I will not permit a single 
aspersion.” 

“ I do not asperse her,” replied Clarence excitedly. “ I 
say she knew, must have known, the intent of my atten- 
tions ; that I could have won her had you not inter- 
fered.” 

“ Have you gone insane ? ” exclaimed Frank. “ Why 
man ! Was I present at Richfield ? Did I know her 
attractions for you ? Did I know you had met her ? 
Did you ever tell me of your love for her? ” 

“No !” almost shouted Clarence, “but she did, and 
having learned from her, was it not your duty to me to 
have left her to me ? ” 

The utter selfishness and injustice of this speech was 
so grotesque that it actually calmed Frank by exciting his 
sense of humor. 

Regarding Clarence fixedly a moment, he asked : 

“ Did you ever tell Miss Standish that you loved her ? ” 

“ No, I did not. But I insist she was no stranger to 
my intentions toward her.” 

The pretensions of Clarence had now become absurd. 
Frank could no longer maintain anger against him. 
His pity, however, was great. 

“ My poor Clarence,” he said, “ your bitter disappoint- 
ment and grief has bereft you of your usual good sense. 
Now try and listen to me calmly. Miss Standish came 
to Nahant while I was there last August. I never knew 
she had met you. I never heard her mention your name 
nor, indeed, an incident connected with Richfield, al- 


12 


ON THE RACK. 


though I knew she had been there. I think I loved her 
at first sight. I wooed her at once. She has admitted 
to me since our engagement that she was as strongly 
attracted toward me at first as I was to her. As to 
the impression you suppose you made upon her, you 
must be mistaken. Since our engagement, when, in 
talking of my hopes, prospects, and surroundings, I 
have mentioned your name, I cannot recollect that she 
has shown by word or sign that she recognized your 
name.” 

If Frank’s purpose was to calm and soothe Clarence, 
he exhibited but little tact. The suggestion that Marion 
did not recollect him set Clarence on fire at once, and 
he could not wait for Frank to conclude, that, after a 
cool review of the matter, he would find that Frank had 
done nothing of which he could complain. 

“You have done nothing,” he burst forth. “Is your 
handsome face nothing? Are your eyes, speaking admi- 
ration at every glance, nothing ? Is your voice, each tone 
a caress, nothing ? Is your smooth, nimble tongue, 
honeyed with compliments, nothing ? Oh, no ; you have 
done nothing! You exist, don’t you? What chance 
had I in her memory when you, upon whom fool fortune 
has lavished every gift, stood before her ? ” 

Again the grotesqueness of Clarence’s complaint 
aroused Frank’s sense of humor, and he laughed aloud 
as he asked : 

“ Do you want me to efface myself ? Shall I cut out 
my tongue and put out my eyes to please you ?” 

Clarence tried to reply, but his passion so mastered 
him that he could only stamp his feet and fling himself 
out of the room hurriedly. 


RECONCILED. 


13 


CHAPTER III. 

RECONCILED. 

F RANK did not believe the friendship of so many 
years between himself and Clarence was broken. 
“ When Clarence is cool enough to review this affair 
calmly,” he said to himself, “ he will see that his position 
is untenable ; he will realize how unjust and selfish he 
has been.” 

During all their years of intimacy, Frank had never 
seen displayed the qualities of unreason and selfishness 
so conspicuously exhibited by Clarence in the exciting 
scene through which they had passed. He attributed 
them all to the passion by which Clarence had been pos- 
sessed, and that passion, also a most unusual mani- 
festation, to the suddenness with which Clarence had 
learned of the downfall of his hopes and aspirations. 

Had he known, he thought, that Clarence cherished 
such hopes as to Marion, he would have broken the news 
more gently, and in a way that would not have so exas- 
perated his friend. But calmly reviewing the matter, he 
could not blame himself, except as to having lost his tem- 
per. Since he had lost nothing, but had gained every- 
thing, it should have been his part to have maintained his 
temper and endeavored in every way to soothe his 
friend. 

Frank was young; his knowledge of the world little. 
He did not know what revolutions the love of woman 
works in the heart of maq. He did not realize with 
what ease a man can relapse into a savage, when balked 
of the mate he has selected for himself, nor what little 
difference there is after all between the savage beasts 


14 


ON THE RACK. 


roaming the forests and the refined man moving about in 
a civilized community. 

Consequently he clung to the idea he could soon talk 
the affair over calmly and sensibly with Clarence, and 
show him that no one was to blame, but that only he, 
Clarence, had been unfortunate. 

But Frank was doomed to disappointment ; Clarence 
avoided him the next day, and for many days after. 
Unable to wait longer, he wrote a letter to Clarence, go- 
ing over the whole matter, proving, on the word of Ma- 
rion, that she had not regarded Clarence’s attentions as 
any more significant than a number of others at the 
Springs — certainly not so serious as some who had made 
declarations of love and proffered their hands. And he 
argued that he could have done Clarence no injustice 
without intent, and that in ignorance of Clarence’s regard 
for Marion, there could have been no intent. 

The letter was returned to him. 

Matters continued until the day before Christmas, when 
the senior partner, Mr. Evans, came to Frank, saying : 

“ Pemberton, I hear you and Fellows have quarreled.” 

“ A difference exists between us,” answered Frank ; “I 
presume it must be called a quarrel.” 

Frank had tried to answer lightly, but he saw that the 
old merchant regarded the matter seriously. The thought 
came quickly that the senior partner suspected it to be 
over the new partnership, so he added hastily : 

“It is about a young lady.” 

He looked up at Mr. Evans, expecting his communi- 
cation to be received with ridicule, and prepared to fall 
into the humor, but the head of the concern continued 
to regard him gravely. 

“ I am sorry to hear it,” finally said Mr. Evans. “ Is 
it really serious ? Since we have heard of this difference, 


RECONCILED. 


*5 


as you put it, we — that is, the firm — have felt appre- 
hension. It is not good policy to take enemies into an 
association of persons bound together for mutual benefit. 
Can you tell me the cause of this difference ? ” 

Frank hesitated a moment or two, and if the truth be 
told, a little alarmed at what he thought might be a 
covert threat. Then he replied : 

“ I see no reason why there should be concealment. 
To tell you will be no betrayal of confidence, and I 
should like to have your judgment upon my course, 
since I am charged with being the offending person.” 

Then briefly, and without color, that the facts might 
stand without prejudice before the old gentleman, who 
was friend to both, Frank told the story in detail. 

When he had concluded, the old gentleman rubbed his 
chin softly and thoughtfully for a moment. 

“ Had Fellows told her of her attractions for him? ” 

“ No,” Frank hastened to reply positively. “He very 
distinctly says that he said nothing to her in the way of 
Revealing his feelings, but insists that she must have ob- 
served from his attentions the nature of his purposes. 
She asserts, upon the contrary, that she did not regard 
his attentions as peculiarly marked or significant. Under 
the circumstances, I thought his contention that I should 
have retired as unreasonable, and I think so still.” 

“ So do I, upon your statement of the case,” said Mr. 
Evans. “ But this must be arranged between you in 
some manner. Perhaps a disinterested third person can 
do more to accommodate this matter than the principals 
can. Perhaps I can.” 

The old man hesitated, humor twinkling in his eyes 
and a smile playing about his mouth, which he, with dif- 
ficulty, repressed. 

“ X do not know that I am. a successful diplomat in 


1 6 


ON THE RACK. 


love affairs. The last time I tried my hand at it I was 
remarkably unsuccessful, since my little girl informed 
me this morning that she was to marry the man I said 
she should not.” 

Then he added seriously : “ However, some one 

must interfere between you. I doubt whether apy one 
can with better grace than myself. I will, if you do not 
object.” 

Frank warmly urged the old man to do so, expressing 
the sorrow he felt over the estrangement, and his earnest 
desire that the old relations might be renewed. 

An hour, perhaps, passed, and Frank was still busy at 
his desk, when Mr. Evans reappeared. He was evi- 
dently much flustered and not a little heated. It was \ 
apparent that he had been greatly annoyed. He said 
abruptly : 

“ I find that you told me the exact truth. I never saw 
such an unreasonable man. In this matter he seems to 
have lost all that strong common sense which has 
marked him as a business man. Hang it ! He hadn’t a 
leg to stand on by his own confession, and yet, he 
claimed prior rights — but there, there, I brought him to 
sense at last — not just the right way, I’m afraid, for I 
lost patience and told him what I thought of his con- 
duct, and, Pemberton, I’m afraid I threatened a bit ; but 
you go to him, sink your pride — your rights— in the mat- 
ter, and tender your hand to him. It will come all right.” 

Mr. Evans hurried away, mopping his brow with a 
handkerchief, not waiting to listen to Frank’s earnest 
thanks. 

The young man did not wait for his resolve to grow 
cold, but, laying all things down, he went to Clarence at 
once. Seeing Frank approach, Clarence turned from 
him, but as suddenly turned back and advanced a step 


RECONCILED. 


17 


or two, when Frank, with a smile and outstretched hand, 
came to him ; he extended his own, but grasping that of 
his whilom friend coldly. He interrupted Frank to say: 

“ Let us say nothing more about the matter. Explana- 
tions will be unsatisfactory at best. Let the matter stand 
just where it was.” 

With this he dropped Frank’s hand and waiting for 
the latter to speak. 

“ As you think best,” said Frank, chilled by his re- 
ception, “ so that we can get back to the old relation.” 

There was a subdued glance in Clarence’s eyes at 
variance with his words. That he talked and acted un- 
der great self-suppression was clearly apparent. Frank 
could not but feel that it was, after all, as Mr. Evans had 
suggested, a coerced reconciliation, and he was conscious 
of a sub-feeling of great dissatisfaction. He appreciated 
that Clarence had built an invisible wall about himself, 
and was posing as a martyr. He really felt more vexed 
and irritated by the manner of Clarence than he had by 
the latter’s words on the day of the rupture. It was 
only by great effort that he could turn the conversation 
into channels remote from that which had been the cause 
of their separation. And the longer they talked the 
more embarrassed they grew. Frank therefore withdrew 
with the best grace he could, consoling himself that, at 
least, the ice was broken and that time would bring about 
the old intimacy. Such, however, was not the case. 
They greeted each other when they met, talked upon in- 
different matters and fell insensibly, perhaps compulsorily, 
so far as Frank was concerned, into manners of the most 
ceremonious politeness, but made no steps forward toward 
a resumption of the old intimacy. 

Three or four days after this forced reconciliation, 
Baynum, chief assistant to Clarence, sought Frank. 


ON THE RACK . 


18 

When Clarence went into the concern, Baynum was to 
succeed him in charge of the department. He was a 
young man who had been advanced to the position he 
had held largely through the influence of Frank, who 
had taken a deep interest in his progress. 

He was much troubled, and set forth that he had re- 
ceived instructions from Clarence to write to a firm, the 
largest customer of the department, and one rated very 
high in the commercial world, asking for an explicit 
statement of its finances. Baynum was certain that such 
a request would give great offense to the concern in 
question and lead to the withdrawal of its trade, while, 
moreover, it would be a violation of one of the most rigid 
rules of the house of Evans, Whitney & Co., since all x 
such inquiries were to be made by the credit department. 

“Why don’t you point that out to Mr. Fellows?" 
asked Frank. 

“ I did, and received a very sharp reminder that I had 
not yet assumed charge of the department and was still 
a subordinate, subject to orders." 

“ Did you point out that to obey the order was to 
violate one of the most stringent rules of the house ? " 

“ I did." 

“ And Mr. Fellows still insisted ?" 

“Yes; flew into a violent passion. He would not 
listen to reason. And, Mr. Pemberton, I do not know 
what to make of Mr. Fellows. During the past two or 
three weeks his very nature seems to have undergone a 
change. Formerly he was cautious in the extreme in all 
matters, exercising the best of judgment. Now he is 
frequently reckless, issuing orders of an extravagant 
nature, angered if questioned, and countermanding them, 
while denying he ever issued them." 

Frank, who thought he understood the reason, made 


RECONCILED. 


19 


some commonplace remark relative to Clarence's health, 
saying further that the- time was not far distant when a 
change would take place, and that until then, it would be 
well to endure the condition of affairs without opposi- 
tion. 

“ I am quite willing to put up with his moodiness, 
irritability, and capriciousness,” replied Baynum. “ I 
wouldn’t let these weigh a moment with me, nor have I 
so long as they resulted in nothing prejudicial to the 
interests of the house. But this is most serious. I am 
supposed to obey the orders of my superior, but if I do 
I violate a rule of the house of which I have full knowl- 
edge. I can hardly appeal over his head to the con- 
cern, since he is about to enter it and thus win an enemy 
within it. If I obey the order I not only cripple the 
department I am to succeed to the charge of, but I 
demonstrate my unfitness for the charge. If I refuse 
flatly I gain an enemy and perhaps will be discharged ; 
besides, I fear it will not prevent the writing of the 
letter.” 

The thought crossed Frank’s mind that perhaps 
Clarence was visiting his vengeance upon his, Frank’s, 
friend, but he dismissed it as unworthy himself and 
Clarence. 

He was troubled, too, over the manifestation upon the 
part of his old friend. It was so unlike his usual cool 
and steady-headed method of business. What could it 
portend ? Then he concluded that in Clarence’s present 
irritable condition he had become exasperated over 
opposition, and had insisted upon compliance with his 
orders because only of the opposition he had met with. 
So he said : 

“ Well, Baynum, apparently comply with the order, 
but delay it as long as possible. Perhaps when Mr. 


20 


ON THE RACK. 


Fellows comes to think it over coolly he will himself 
countermand the order. If it comes to the worst, refuse, 
because of the rule of the house, and appeal, if necessary. 
I will stand your friend.” 

Baynum went away, leaving Frank much worried. 
He feared that the excitement Clarence had experienced 
and the mental worry he was enduring would lead to a 
serious illness, of which this irritable capriciousness was 
but a precursor. He even contemplated a confidential 
conversation with Mr. Evans as to Fellows’s health, and 
the suggestion that he should be given a vacation for 
rest and change of scene. But he could not see his way 
clear to this, even, fearing that his motive would be mis- 
apprehended. 

For Clarence he felt profound pity, and the tale told 
him by Baynum filled him with anxiety. 

Nor was he much relieved an hour or two later when, 
leaving for his home, he was met by Baynum who whis- 
pered to him : 

“ You’re right. He did countermand the order. But, 
gracious, what abuse he heaped on me for insisting that 
he gave the order. He declares he did nothing of the 
kind.” 


CHAPTER IV. 

A FRUSTRATED INTRIGUE. 

W ITH the new year, Frank, as a partner, was to take 
a new and more important division of labor. There 
was, therefore, a successor to himself, as head of the 
department, to be appointed. There had been some 
thought of bringing from another house a person for that 
purpose. Against this Frank had contended as strenu- 


A FRUSTRATED INTRIGUE . 


21 


ously as he could, arguing that the policy of the house of 
Evans, Whitney & Co. had been to promote those who 
had deserved promotion by earning it, and, that the suc- 
cess of the house was in part due to this policy, since the 
incentive for devoted services had been given in this 
hope of advancement. He contended that his chief as- 
sistant was thoroughly competent, and that to deny him 
the promotion, so well earned, would have a bad effect 
upon the whole department. This was not denied. But 
a special partner had urged the bringing in of the out- 
sider, who was a relative. 

Frank, however, in the end prevailed, but the decision 
was not reached until the last day of the year. 

Desiring to mark in some signal way his separation 
from the immediate superintendency of the department, 
he determined to entertain his subordinates at a dinner 
at the close of the last day of the year, at which he could 
also present to the clerks their new head. 

Consequently, in pursuance of this determination 
Frank and ail who had been under him, to the humblest, 
met at a neighboring restaurant at five o’clock, where, as 
might well be supposed under the circumstances, a sober 
meal was partaken of. 

' If, however, there was an absence of indulgence, there 
was no absence of merriment and high spirits, for there 
was youth about the board, and happiness. Frank was 
popular with his clerks and his success pleased them. 
His chief assistant was also popular, and there had been 
great fear that he would not succeed Frank. Conse- 
quently there was unmeasured joy when his promotion 
was announced. Moreover, this meant that each one 
present was to be advanced a step, and that also gave 
pleasure. So every one had something to rejoice over. 
Tence it was a merry, if a temperate meal. 


22 


ON THE RACK. 


The dinner had been eaten and cigars were reached, 
when a letter was brought to Frank which disturbed 
him. 

A young man who had been under Frank for some 
years — a young man of great promise, and in whom he was 
much interested, had fallen into bad habits. When his 
shortcomings could no longer be concealed or palliated, 
the young man was discharged, much to Frank’s grief. 
The discharged man had an interesting wife and child, 
and Frank had not let him drift away without efforts to 
befriend him. However, he had gone on from bad to 
worse, until his friends one by one had dropped away 
from him. 

The letter handed to Frank purported to come from 
this young man, and urgently requested Frank to go to 
the address named in the letter, at nine that night. It 
set forth that the call was one of life and death, and that 
in all probability this would be the last call upon his 
friendship that would ever be made by the young man. 

He found that he had barely time to reach the place of 
the address given, and so, excusing himself on the plea 
of a sudden call, he hurried away. 

It was not until he had gone some distance in the car 
that he consulted the letter again for the exact address. 
And it was only then that he recognized that the street 
to which he was called was one crossing Broadway, and 
which, on the west side of that famous thoroughfare par- 
ticularly, did not bear a savory reputation. He there- 
fore concluded that the young man, through his dissipa- 
tion, had gotten himself into some trouble, from which 
he wanted help to be extricated. Giving little further 
thought to the matter and arriving at the locality, he got 
off the car and went in search of the house named. 

As he was about to ascend the steps, a police officer 


A FRUSTRATED INTRIGUE. 


23 


checked him with the question as to whether he knew 
the character of the house. To this Frank said he 
did not, but had been urgently called there by letter. 
The officer then informed him that it was one of ill re- 
pute, and that only a few nights before an inmate had 
been shot and killed in it. 

It was only then that Frank recognized the number, 
to which a wide publicity had been given through the 
press, because a misguided man, having found a niece 
there as an inmate, had thought to save the honor of his 
family name by killing her. 

As he was about to take the officer into his confidence 
and explain the reason of his call, a carriage rapidly 
driven down the street drew up at the curbstone. -The 
door was thrown open and a woman hastily descended 
to the pavement. 

To Frank’s horror and amazement it was Marion 
Standish. 

“ Oh, you are here,” she cried. “ I feared I would be 
too late.” 

“You!” exclaimed Frank. “You here! For heav- 
en’s sake, what brings you here ? ” 

“ Why, you did.” 

“I ? ” 

“ Certainly,” replied Marion, somewhat indignant over 
her reception. “ Did you not write me urgently to 
meet you here at fifteen minutes to nine — and to be 
alone ? ” 

“ Never ! ” replied he. 

There was something in Frank’s tone as well as man- 
ner which displeased the lady. Drawing a letter from 
her muff, she extended it to her fianct, saying : 

“Please explain this, then ! ” 

Frank hurriedly grasped it and carried it to the lamp 


24 


ON THE RACK. 


of the carriage, by which he could read it, the lady look- 
ing on a surprised, and the officer an interested specta- 
tor. 

Frank absorbed the letter at a glance. It purported 
to be an urgent request from himself to Marion, to meet 
him at that house alone, and, if he were not present 
when she came, to wait until nine for him. It was 
rather a clumsy imitation of his own handwriting, but 
good enough, however, to deceive Marion. 

“ It is a forgery ! ” he exclaimed, aghast at the dis- 
covery. 

He stared at Marion, who became alarmed quite as 
much by reason of his manner as over the fact that she 
had been duped. 

“ But what is the meaning of it all ? If it is, why are 
you here,” she asked. 

“It is a trap laid for us both,” he answered. “Do 
you know the character of this house to which you were 
called ? ” 

Before Marion could reply, the officer, who had taken 
in the situation, said to Frank: 

“ The lady ought not to stand here in the street, sir ; 
she might be seen by some one who knows her. She 
ought to get into the carriage.” 

This recalled Frank to his senses, and so he seized 
Marion by the arm, almost rudely in his haste and energy, 
and led her to. the carriage. This still more alarmed 
Marion, who was greatly confused, and had not com- 
prehended what Frank’s extreme agitation meant. 

She said : “It must be some stupid joke upon us.” 

“A joke that deserves the worst of punishment if it 
is,” said Frank angrily. “But it is far worse. It is a 
vile, diabolical plot to compromise you and to separate 
us. Can you not see it ? ” 


A FRUSTRATED INTRIGUE. 


25 


Standing In the door, the officer beside him, he told 
Marion how he had been induced to come thither, and 
showed her the letter he had received while dining. 

“ Can you not see,” he asked excitedly, “ that if you 
had gotten within that door, your reputation would have 
been compromised ? Do you not see that it was a de- 
liberate plot, for of all the houses into which to lure you, 
this one, at this particular time, is the worst in the city?” 

Then he told her what the character of the house was, 
and what had occurred there within a few days. 

Marion comprehended, and as she did she grew the 
more frightened. Nor did the officer help to compose her, 
when he said : 

“ You see, madam, it would have been pretty hard for 
any gent, even this one, if he’d a gone into the house 
and found ye there, to believe it was all straight. That’s 
what was calculated upon. Ye see your letter was for 
you to be here a quarter to nine and his at nine. The 
plan was for him to come on ye, not expectin’ to see you, 
and be caught by him and perhaps some others as knows 
ye, for three or four has gone in in spite of me warning. It 
was well fixed up and it wasn’t. You spoiled the game 
by coming late, and them as fixed it up didn’t know, I 
guess, that I was stationed here to warn folks. And I 
wouldn’t let ye go in.” 

Marion shuddered at her narrow escape. 

“ We must have enemies,” she cried, “ wicked enemies ; 
but who can they be and why ? ” 

Frank was silent. His mind went surely in one direc- 
tion. Indignant as he was, and burning for revenge 
upon the perpetrator of the malignant plot as he was, 
nevertheless he wanted to close his mind against the irre- 
sistible conclusion. 

He was appalled at the wickedness of the design, and 


26 


ON THE RACK. 


confused by its subtle cunning — its malignity. It was too 
horrible to believe. Had the person toward whom his 
suspicions traveled killed Marion and himself in cold 
blood, he thought, it would not have been nearly so 
wicked as this devilish intrigue to separate himself and 
her, with her reputation stained. 

He could not close his mind to the suspicion which 
had come upon it. And he grew more angry as he dis- 
covered that he could not escape the inevitable conclu- 
sion ; more angry than he had ever been in his life. 

The officer, perceiving how deeply he was moved, made 
a tactical diversion. 

“ It seems to me, sir,” he said respectfully, “ you ought 
to take the lady out of the street as soon as you can.” 

“ You’re right, officer,” replied Frank, recalled to his 
duty of protection of Marion. As he attempted to enter, 
the officer added : 

“I’ve got to make a report of this, I s’pose. So I’d 
like your names.” 

The idea shocked Frank, and gave him possession of 
himself by giving him something to do. 

“I can’t do it, officer ; you ought. to see that.” 

The policeman grinned. 

“ I didn’t expect you would, sir ; but it’s me duty to 
ask for them. Git her off the street as quick as you can, 
sir. Ever since that gal was shot inside there, there’s 
lots of ’em come by merely to see the outside the house, 
and some on ’em might know you both.” 

He closed the door of the coach. Frank put out his 
hand in recognition of the kindliness of the officer, who, 
as he directed the driver to go back from where he had 
come, felt something soft remaining in his hand. On ex- 
amination he found it to be a bill of a generous denom- 
ination. 


FRIENDS INDEED. 


27 


The carriage turned about in the street. As it rolled 
into the light, Frank caught the glimpse of a familiar fig- 
ure, skulking behind a grocery wagon. 

Without further thought he sprang from the carriage, 
calling the driver to stop. The act and the call were 
simultaneous. The figure hastened around the corner. 
Frank pursued it rapidly. Catching the flying man by 
the shoulder, he whirled him about and brought him face 
to face to himself. 

The man was Clarence Fellows. 


CHAPTER V. 

FRIENDS INDEED. 

F OR a moment Frank could not speak. His rage 
choked him. He glared at Clarence, his anger in- 
creasing with each minute. 

Clarence, however, was cool — at least outwardly. He 
regarded Frank with a smile, joyless and sinister. 

“ Well, Mr. Pemberton,” he said, “ you salute friends 
roughly on the street.” 

“ You dastardly scoundrel — you diabolical rascal.” 
These words, the first Frank could utter, came from 
between grating teeth. 

“ Have a care,” replied Clarence tauntingly. “ Our 
reconciliation is of too recent a date to stand much 
straining.” 

“ God ! ” cried Frank, “ why don’t I kill you ? ” 

“ Principally because you do not dare,” answered 
Clarence, with a sneer. “A traitor is always a coward.” 
Taunted beyond endurance, Frank made an effort to 


28 


ON THE RACK . 


strike Clarence. Indeed, be would have succeeded if a 
good-natured giant, who was passing and who had 
stopped on seeing Frank grasp Clarence, had not 
caught his arm. 

“ Come,” he said, laughing good-humoredly, “ you are 
too big a man to strike a little one. No matter what 
cause he’s given you, you’re too big.” 

“ Let me go,” cried Frank, now thoroughly enraged, 
and struggling violently. “ I want to kill the scoundrel.” 

But he was powerless in the firm grasp of the good- 
humored giant. 

“For Heaven’s sake, Mr. Pemberton, control your- 
self ! ” 

This remark came from a young man who had just 
come up, and who, upon recognizing Frank, had gone to 
the assistance of the giant. 

“ Oh, let him proceed ! ” said Clarence, cool and col- 
lected, still smiling his sinister smile. “ These are com- 
pliments he lavishes on his friends.” 

But Frank had lost all reason ; he was frantic, and 
struggled like a wild beast in the arms of the two men. 

Exhausted by his vain endeavors, and panting because 
of them, he cried out to the one who had come to the as- 
sistance of the big man, and whom he had recognized, in 
a half conscious sort of a way, as one of his own clerks : 

“ Do you know what this is ? He is a stabber of 
women. He lures them into traps to ruin their reputa- 
tion. He revenges himself upon virtuous women who 
prefer others to himself. He plots to compromise their 
fair names. He is a coward — a dastard — a scoundrel — a 
hyena ” 

“ Hush ! hush ! Mr. Pemberton,” his clerk implored. 
“ Be quiet, sir. You cannot afford to make this scene 
in the street,” 


FRIENDS INDEED. 


29 


** Oh, let him go on ! ” said Clarence, still with his 
sinister smile. “ Perhaps he’ll give the name of the 
lady whose name I’ve ruined.” 

Blind with rage as he was, Frank, however, did not 
fail to appreciate the utter malignity of this endeavor to 
take advantage of his passion and make him utter the 
name of Marion. Its effect was to still further enrage 
him. He made a frightful lunge forward. The act was 
so sudden that he nearly escaped the fast hold of the 
two men. And Clarence, perceiving it, was startled for 
the moment from his assumed calmness, and shrank 
backward a step or two. But seeing that the men main- 
tained their grip, he assumed again the bold front he 
had carried. 

The bearing of Clarence did not impress the by- 
standers favorably. It angered the big man. 

“Now you get away,” he said to Clarence, “or I’ll 
take a hand in and make you.” 

“Go, for Heaven’s sake, Mr. Fellows!” said the 
clerk. “ Do get away.” 

“ Why should I ? ” replied Clarence insolently. “ I 
didn’t make the row. If a member of the firm of ” 

“Stop, sir, please,” cried the clerk. “You are only 
exciting him the more.” 

“Now you get away at once!” demanded the big 
man sternly. “ If you didn’t make the row, you’ve 
wronged this man some way.” 

“ What is it Jim ?” said a newcomer lounging up. 

“ Take that little one off, before this one gets at him. 
There’ll be murder if you don’t,” replied the big man. 

“ Come away,” said the newcomer to Clarence. 

Clarence lost his temper and resented the imperative 
interference of the new man. With supreme contempt 
to his resentment, the new aid whirled him about, and 


3 ° 


ON THE RACK. 


with a firm grip on his shoulders marched him down 
the street. 

The big man and the one who had come to his assist- 
ance, were police officers, off duty, and in plain clothes. 

As Clarence disappeared under the guidance of the 
officer, Frank shouted after him. 

“ I’ll kill you ; I’ll kill you like a worm ; I’ll crush 
you.” 

“ Now, you shut up ! ” said the big officer, relaxing 
his hold upon Frank. “ Shut up, or there’ll be trouble 
for you ! ” 

“ Do calm yourself, Mr. Pemberton,” implored the 
clerk. “ You forget who you are, and where you are. 
Be calm. Do, I beg you.” 

Whether it was because his passion had spent its 
force, or because Clarence had been removed from his 
sight, certain it is that Frank became calmer. Yet he 
trembled in every limb, and staggered on his feet like a' 
drunken man, as the clerk let go his hold, in order to 
pick up Frank’s hat. This caused the big man to say: 

“You’ve taken a drop too much, my friend.” 

“ No, he has not ! ” indignantly protested the clerk. 

“ He does not drink. I know all about him. Something 
unusual has occurred to put him in such a rage. Come 
with me, Mr. Pemberton.” 

“ Well,” said the big man, “stick close to him, for he 
wants a friend now.” 

Frank by this time was calmed sufficiently to realize 
what he had been doing— what a spectacle he had been 
making of himself. So, though he said nothing, he fol- 
lowed his clerk quietly As he reached the corner of 
Twenty-seventh Street, his name was spoken by some 
one. 

It was Marion who called. She was in the coach 


FRIENDS INDEED. 


31 


awaiting his reappearance. Turning from the clerk 
with a brief word of thanks, he sprang into the carriage 
beside her. 

The clerk, who had always entertained the deepest 
respect for Frank, could not reconcile matters. He 
knew, as every one at the store did, that differences had 
existed between Mr. Pemberton and Mr. Fellows. 
When, therefore, he came upon the two in altercation in 
the public streets, he connected one with the other. But 
— a woman in a coach waiting for his chief, while he 
quarreled openly and violently with the man once his 
friend, put a new phase on the matter and greatly 
shocked the clerk’s confidence in the one he had always 
looked up to. 

He went his way troubled and apprehensive. 

Frank and Marion drove several blocks before either 
spoke. Marion saw that Frank was greatly agitated and 
Frank could not yet trust himself to speech. 

She laid her hand upon his and her touch soothed 
him. When she thought he was calmer, she asked : 

“Was that the man?” 

“Yes,” was his brief reply. 

“ And it was ? ” 

“ Clarence Fellows.” 

She said no more for a while, and then very quietly 
remarked : 

“Of course you were very indignant — very angry. 
But was it wise to do what you did ? ” 

“ It was very unwise,” replied he promptly. 

Then finding he could speak, and that there was relief 
in words, he said : 

« I suspected him from the first. And when the car- 
riage turned, and I saw him skulking away from the con- 
cealment from which he had been watching us, my 


3 2 


ON THE RACK. 


suspicions were confirmed. On the impulse of the sud- 
den anger with which I was filled, I lost my reason and 
rushed after him. It was unwise but natural.” 

“You quarreled with him, then?” 

“ Yes. Threatened him wildly and foolishly. I would 
have struck him, probably, if I had not been prevented. 
I am glad now I did not.” 

“ I hope you’ll be satisfied with what you have done — 
and that you will do nothing more.” 

“ I must. He shall be punished.” 

“You can do nothing more.” 

“Why? I can punish him for forgery.” 

“ And make my name prominent in such a scandal ? His 
purpose, now frustrated, will be achieved by such a course.” 

“My God !” cried Frank. “That did not occur to 
me. No ! That must not be done.” 

By this time they had reached Marion’s home in Thirty- 
seventh Street, not far from Fifth Avenue. 

“You will come in ?” she asked. 

“ I think not. It is quite late.” 

They descended from the carriage and the driver was 
dismissed. 

As they mounted the steps, she said : 

“ I am afraid to part from yon, in your present frame 
of mind.” 

“ Have no fear,” he returned. “ I am in control of 
myself. My passion is spent. To be sure I am some- 
what shaken, but it is the reaction, nothing more. I’ll 
leave you here, and walk home. It will quiet me. By 
the time I reach home I will be calmed.” 

“ Come to me early to-morrow morning,” she pleaded. 
“ It is a holiday. Spend it with me.” 

“ I’ll do so gladly,” he replied. “ Thank you for 
the permission.” 


FRIENDS INDEED. 


33 


This was said at the door. She put forward her hand, 
which he clasped. She did not let it go, but held it while 
she anxiously scanned his countenance. He bore the 
scrutiny smilingly. And then, as he perceived her anx- 
iety, he kissed her in the shadow of the door and went 
down the steps. 

He had a vague idea of dropping in at his club, but 
concluded that such a place was unfit for him in his pres- 
ent condition of mind. He chose rather a long and vig- 
orous walk. So he turned up town, walking rapidly. 

His mind reverted to the adventure of the evening. 
He tried to fathom the purpose of Clarence’s devilish in- 
trigue — to discover what Clarence imagined he could ac- 
complish by it. Could he have thought, Frank asked 
himself, by such means, to separate him, Frank, from 
Marion? Could it be, that trusting in his, Frank’s hor- 
ror and indignation over finding Marion in such a den, 
as Clarence had tried to lure her, Clarence thought 
Frank would condemn her unheard and flee from her? 
Then, having accomplished this, with her fair name tar- 
nished, did Clarence hope to secure her for himself? 
Could this have been the meaning of the dastardly out- 
rage ? Or was it a malignant desire for revenge on both ? 
He inclined to the latter opinion and found himself grow- 
ing angry again. He tried to dismiss the idea, but his 
mind tended back to the outrage. When he thought of 
the danger in which Marion had been placed — how that 
/ innocent girl, so carefully guarded by proud and tender 
parents from contact even with adversities of the world, 
to say nothing of its vices, had been nearly precipitated 
into scenes of which she had neither thought nor con- 
ception, his indignation grew to white heat and his mind 
was again filled with thoughts of revenge. And his 
anger grew greater when he reflected that because of 


34 


ON THE RACK. 


Marion, he could do nothing to revenge her or 
himself. 

The fact that he had been tricked into leaving his din- 
ner by a letter which was doubtless a forgery, did not 
weigh with him a moment. His indignation and anger 
was entirely over the thought of the jeopardy in which 
Marion had been placed. No matter into what side- 
paths his thoughts ran, they all came back to the one 
thing — the cowardly attempt to compromise this virtuous 
and high-minded girl. 

He had, while thus thinking, wandered further up 
town than he intended going, and so, suddenly awaken- 
ing to the fact, he looked about him to see where he was. 
A coachman standing beside his carriage solicited him as 
a fare, but he shook his head, turned and walked back 
again, still revolving the horrible thing in his mind, 
walking rapidly as before. 

An hour later he was passing the Union Square Hotel. 
Two business acquaintances were standing under the 
portico. One of them, recognizing him, hailed him. 

“ Stop Pemberton, I want to congratulate you.” 

Frank went to them. 

“ I want to congratulate you upon your admission to 
the firm of Evans, Whitney & Co.,” said the acquaintance, 
whose name was Cox. “ I only heard of it this afternoon. 
Come in and let us take a drink over it before the bar 
closes. Old man, you’re on the high road to fortune.” 

Frank followed them in as they turned through the 
door. 

Both of them noticed that Frank was distraught, ner- 
vous, and excited. He drank several times of brandy — 
an unusual thing with him. Moreover, they were very 
heavy drinks. 

His manner and his heavy drinking surprised them. 


THE ATTEST. 


35 


“ So Fellows is in, too ? ” said the other. 

“ Don’t mention his name to me, ” cried Frank angrily, 
setting down his glass. “ He’s a black-hearted scoun- 
drel. He has no place among gentlemen. He doesn’t 
deserve to live.” 

His friends were astonished at this outbreak. Before 
either could reply, Frank walked out of the house and 
was lost to view. 

The two friends looked at each other in amazement. 

“ Drinking is something new for Pemberton,” said one 
to the other. 

“Yes,” replied the other. “ I hope prosperity won’t 
be too much for him.” 

“ Prosperity has ruined more men than adversity.” 

“Yet we all seek it.” 

At the moment, not five blocks away, a man was lying 
on the pavement, either dying or dead, with a ball in his 
brain. 


CHAPTER VI. 

THE ARREST. 

I N fulfillment of his promise to Marion, Frank pre- 
sented himself early at her residence. 

He had spent an uneasy and sleepless night, thinking 
over the whole matter. He was filled with remorse, be- 
cause he had so far lost control of himself as to make a 
scene with Clarence on the public street, and thus en- 
dangered Marion’s fair name. He felt that he had acted 
the part of a boy rather than of a man, and though he 
had received the greatest provocation, he could not ex- 
cuse his frantic anger. 


36 


ON THE RACK . 


Upon the contrary, Marion had grown more angry, as 
reflection showed her how dastardly was the ruse by 
which her reputation had been so nearly compromised. 
Long before Frank arrived she had not only excused, 
but justified him. Therefore, when he went to her, 
instead of finding her ready to chide him for having 
jeopardized her fair fame, he found himself a hero in her 
eyes. 

Remorse-stricken as he was, the praise and adulation 
showered upon him was like the pouring of a balm on a 
wound. 

They discussed the events of the previous night in all 
its bearings. The motive inspiring Clarence perplexed 
them. What could he hope to gain by his plotting, 
other than a gratification of his vengeance? Frank sug- 
gested a thought he had entertained during his long 
walk the previous night, and that was that Clarence 
hoped by luring Marion into that ill-famed house and 
arranging to have Frank find her there, to cause a 
separation between them, when he, Clarence, would be 
free to go to her again, and would find her with a tar- 
nished reputation, willing to listen to his suit. 

This suggestion Marion indignantly scouted. She 
declared that the fact that Clarence could bring himself 
to an intrigue to deliberately blacken her name, was 
proof in itself that he never loved her ; the first thought, 
she insisted, of a man loving a woman was to protect 
her, not to destroy her. She concluded that Clarence 
found his inspiration in a bitter enmity and malignant 
jealousy of Frank. 

Frank was not inclined to agree with Marion. He was 
loth to come to such a conclusion. He had known 
Clarence most intimately for a period of fifteen years, he 
told Marion, and in all that time he had discovered 


THE ATTEST. 


37 


nothing in Clarence’s character to justify the belief that 
he was revengeful and vindictive. He knew that Clar- 
ence was subtle and deep — relentless in pursuing an end 
once determined upon. He could conceive that in an 
endeavor to achieve some substantial result, Clarence 
could be lead to a great extreme, but not for the mere 
gratification of a wild desire for revenge which would 
bring nothing to him in actual results. No ; he was 
firm in the belief that Clarence had some substantial end 
in view, or was demented by his grief and disappoint- 
ment. 

Their determination was, however, to preserve the 
adventure as a profound secret. This because of Marion. 
They would speak of it to no one ; would not pursue any 
scheme of revenge or punishment, unless Clarence should 
make another attempt, or cause the matter to become 
public, when punishment should be inflicted through the 
forms of law. 

Frank remained at Marion’s house until five o’clock in 
the afternoon. 

As he descended the steps on leaving, he saw two men 
upon the pavement in front of the house. As he 
appeared, they separated, going a short distance in 
opposite directions. 

He noticed that when he turned to the right, the one 
who had moved off in the other direction faced about 
and slowly followed him. The other man preceded him 
a few steps. 

As the corner above was reached, the one in advance 
turned, faced Frank, and waited for him to come up. 

“ Mr. Frank Pemberton ?” he said, inquiry in histone. 

“The same,” replied Frank, frowning, not pleased 
with the manner of the man. 

“ I arrest you,” said the man. 


38 


ON THE RACK. 


Frank started back astonished. Evidently misinter- 
preting Frank’s action, the man sprang at him vigor- 
ously, dexterously catching his wrists, swinging him 
around, and crossing his hands behind his back. All 
this was done swiftly and skillfully, before Frank could 
realize what was intended. The one following came up 
hastily and snapped a pair of handcuffs on Frank’s wrists. 

“You scoundrels, what do you mean by this?” ex- 
claimed Frank. 

“ Hard words, Mr. Pemberton, will not do any good, ” 
said the officer who had sprung on him. “ You are ar- 
rested for the murder of Clarence Fellows.” 

Frank was stunned. Clarence murdered ! This was 
his only thought. It was horrible. He could scarcely 
realize it. He forgot himself, the relations in which he 
stood with regard to Clarence, the wrongs done him, 
even the relations he bore to the two men in whose cus- 
tody he was. The idea that he was charged with a mur- 
der crept slowly into his stunned mind. When he fully 
appreciated it, it seemed to him so absurd that he laughed 
aloud. They were silly to think he could kill the man he 
had loved for fifteen years. He had, under the shock of 
surprise, forgotten all about the events of the previous 
night — forgotten that less than twenty hours previously 
he had shouted aloud publicly that he would kill Clar- 
ence as he would a worm. So he laughed scornfully. 
But suddenly the whole thing burst upon him — his quar- 
rels with Clarence — his altercation — the threats he had 
made. He was panic stricken. But thinking how easy 
to disprove the charge, he regained self possession. 

“Well,” he said ; “and what next?” 

“You must go with us.” 

“Very well. You can take these off,” pointing to the 
handcuffs ; “ I will not attempt to escape.” 


THE ATTEST. 39 

“ The safest way is the surest,” said the officer, with a 
grin. 

A carriage was passing. Frank was already annoyed 
and humiliated by the curiosity of the few passing by, 
who had stopped to look upon a man under arrest and 
handcuffed, and who were manifesting an eager curiosity 
as to the cause. He called to the driver to stop. 

“ Put me into the coach,” he said. “ I will pay for it.” 

The officers consenting, they were driven to the sta- 
tion house. 

Arriving, Frank faced the sergeant at the desk. The 
few questions demanded by the rules of the department 
under such circumstances were asked and answered. 
Frank had passed into a condition of stupor and he 
talked as in a dream. 

“What are you goingto do with him?” asked the ser- 
geant of the officers who had made the arrest. 

“Our orders were to bring him here and wait until 
the captain came. We suppose he will bring a warrant 
for the prisoner’s confinement in the Tombs.” 

“ Well, then, take him into that room.” 

It was the captain’s room. 

Frank stared helplessly from one to the other as they 
talked. When the sign was given he followed obedi- 
ently. He had made no effort to justify himself. A chair 
was placed for him. He obediently sat down. The fact 
that his hands were handcuffed made him sit upright, 
leaning a little forward. The position was uncomforta- 
ble, but he did not murmur. An officer brought another 
chair close beside him and seated himself. Frank gave 
the act no heed. But he tried to think. It was difficult. 
Slowly, through his deadened senses, the danger he was 
in came to him. This only confused him the more. He 
knew he was not thinking clearly. He wondered he 


40 


ON THE RACK 


did not feel his position more acutely. He thought of 
Marion and what she would do if she saw him there ; of 
his mother, and her distress, and wondered if she would 
be frightened. Then whether Mr. Evans and the other 
members of the concern .would believe the charge ; and 
if they did, if they would be angry. And it was all in 
such a dull, dumb way, as if they were somebody else’s 
thoughts he was thinking. It never occurred to him to 
do anything to relieve himself from the position he was 
in. He was stunned and crushed. 

Suddenly the thought leaped into his mind that this 
was another of Clarence’s devilish intrigues to persecute 
him. How ? He would try to reason it out. In his in- 
tense indignation he forgot Clarence had been murdered. 
When the idea did occu**, he turned abruptly to the of- 
ficer beside him. 

“ Is he dead ? ” 

“Who? Fellows? As a door nail.” 

The sergeant on duty appeared at the door. He 
looked at Frank some time. There was sympathy and 
kindliness in his eyes. This aroused Frank. 

“ How was he killed ? ” asked Frank of the sergeant. 

The officer beside him smiled knowingly, as if he 
would say, “You don’t know, of course.” 

The sergeant, however, replied, as if it were a natural 
question : 

“ Shot in the head.” 

« When ?” 

“ Last night or early this morning.” 

“Where?” 

“He was found in Twentieth street, not far from 
Fourth avenue.” 

“ I saw him last night and quarreled with him,” 
Frank remarked quietly. 


THE ATTEST. 


41 


The sergeant looked down upon him pityingly. 

“ It is a good rule,” he said kindly, “ for men charged 
as you are not to talk too much.” 

Frank did not heed him ; he was lost in thought again. 

A voice behind the sergeant said : 

“ The captain will not thank you for that warning.” 

The sergeant shrugged his shoulders. 

“ Haven’t you got a message to send to any of your 
friends ? ” he asked. 

Frank looked up at him as if he comprehended the 
question with difficulty. Then he answered with a smile : 

“ No ; it’s of no use. I didn’t shoot Fellows. It’s all 
a mistake.” 

“ That’s better kind of talk,” said the sergeant. “ But 
you had better send for a lawyer.” 

Frank did not reply, but looked steadily into the face 
of the sergeant. He asked abruptly : 

“ Haven’t I known you somewhere ? ” 

“ Yes,” replied the sergeant. “ I was shipping clerk 
for Evans, Whitney & Co. when you were a boy there.” 

“ I am a partner now,” returned Frank quietly. 

There was a diversion in the other room. Some one 
had entered. The sergeant returned to his desk. The 
newcomer conversed with him and the officer remaining 
outside. 

Presently a stranger appeared in the doorway of the 
room in which Frank was sitting. With barely a per- 
ceptible nod, he indicated to the officer beside Frank to 
leave the room. 

It was Captain Lawton. 

Entering, he took the seat vacated by the officer. 

u Well, Mr. Pemberton,” he said sympathetically, “ I 
regret to see you in this predicament.” 

Frank was so absorbed that he had not noticed the 


42 


ON THE RACK. 


exchange. He therefore looked up with surprise, on 
hearing another voice so near him. 

“ Thank you,” he answered simply. 

The captain saw he was not recognized, so he said : 

“ I am Captain Lawton.” 

Frank bowed, but did not reply. The announcement 
conveyed little to him. 

“ I am afraid this is a bad affair,” continued the cap- 
tain. “ Perhaps you can make a statement which will 
mitigate the charge against you.” 

Frank was puzzled and showed it in his face. 

“ I do not comprehend you,” he said. 

“ I mean the shooting of Fellows.” 

“ Yes, it is bad — very bad.’ * 

“ Did you do it in self-defense ? ” 

“ I did not do it at all.” 

“ The facts are greatly against you, Mr. Pemberton.” 

“Oh ! ” 

“ There has been bad blood between you and Mr. 
Fellows for some time, I believe.” 

“ No,” replied Frank. “Mr, Fellows has felt anger 
and bitterness against me for some weeks. But I felt no 
anger against him — until last night.” 

What was the cause of your anger last night?” 

“ I caught him in a ” 

Frank stopped suddenly. He was on the point of 
revealing that which, only a few hours previously, he had 
agreed with Marion to preserve as a secret. His narrow 
escape shocked him. The shock aroused him and 
awakened his faculties. The necessity of protecting 
Marion and preventing the mention of her name, brought 
him out of the dazed condition of mind he had been in. 

“ I caught him in an act which was discreditable to him 
and a wrong to me,” he went on. 


THE ATTEST. 


43 


“ What was that ?” insinuatingly asked the captain. 

“ I cannot tell you. I am told the man is dead.” 

“ You gave a dinner to your clerks last night ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ A letter was brought to you at its close, which called 
you away.” 

“Yes.” 

“ Where did you go from dinner ? ” 

Frank was silent. 

“ If you are innocent of that shooting, Mr. Pemberton, 
the safest way for you is to account for every moment of 
your time after you left your friends at dinner.” 

Frank still maintained silence. 

“ I am bound to tell you that the facts as they have 
been gathered to-day tell very strongly against you. 
You will need to make an effort against those facts. 
You had an altercation with Mr. Fellows on Sixth 
Avenue last night between nine and ten.” 

“ Yes.” 

“ You threatened to kill him.” 

“ The wild ravings of an angry man.” 

“ Where did Mr. Fellows go after he left you ? ” 

“ I have no idea.” 

“You went away with a friend, but left him abruptly, 
— to join a lady in a coach. Who was that lady ? ” 

“ I cannot tell you.” 

“ Where did you go with her ?” 

“ Nor that either.” 

“When did you leave her?” 

“ Half an hour later.” 

“ Where did you go then ? ” 

“ I walked a long distance to calm myself.’ 

“Where?” 


44 


ON THE RACK . 


“ Oh, I walked up Fifth Avenue until I reached the 
Park and then walked back again.” 

“When and where after that did you meet Mr. Fel- 
lows? ” 

The expression of Frank’s face showed that he appre- 
ciated the trap that had been laid for him, but he replied 
quietly : 

“ I have not seen Mr. Fellows since he went away from 
me in Sixth Avenue.” 

“You passed the Union Square Hotel at nearly one 
o’clock in the morning.” 

“Yes.” 

“ And spoke to two acquaintances.” 

“Yes.” 

“ Drank with them.” 

“Yes.” 

“And was nervous and excited.” 

“ Yes.” 

“And denounced Fellows to them, saying that he did 
not deserve to live.” 

“ I believe I did.” 

“ Had you not just then parted from Mr. Fellows ? ” 

“ No.” 

“ He was found only five blocks distant from there.” 

“ I had not seen him.” 

“ You left the dinner at half past eight ; at nearly ten 
you were quarreling with Mr. Fellows on Sixth Avenue. 
At ten you disappeared with a lady, from the corner of 
Sixth Avenue and Twenty-seventh Street. At nearly 
one you were seen again at the corner of Fifteenth Street 
and Fourth Avenue. Will you not tell where you were 
between times.” 

“ I cannot.” 

“ You mean you will not.” 


THE ARREST. 


45 


“ Yes.” 

“ Why ? ” 

“ For reasons that are sufficient to myself.” 

“ Nor who the woman was with whom you went away ? ” 

“ That particularly.” 

“ Nor the cause of your quarrel with Mr. Fellows.” 

“ I cannot tell you.” 

“Mr. Pemberton, I’ve heard a great deal about you 
during this day. With the single exception of this mat- 
ter in which you are now involved, everything I have heard 
has been very greatly to your credit. You are reported 
to me as a good son ; a strict, upright, and devoted man 
of business ; an honest man, of most excellent habits ; a 
warm friend, a good fellow. You have warm friends — 
many of them who will grieve over this trouble of yours ; 
many of them are men I most highly esteem. I would 
infinitely rather prove you innocent of this charge than 
weave a network of proof against you. If you will give 
me half a chance to do it, I will try. You have a duty to 
perform for others — for that aged mother whose support 
you have been for many years ; and for that other, that 
very beautiful and charming girl — as I am told — who 
has only recently pledged her life to you. Give me an 
opportunity to help you ! ” 

As the tears welled up into Frank’s eyes he made an 
instinctive effort to put forth his hand to the captain. 
But they were confined by handcuffs. 

The captain took them off with a rapid motion. 

Frank grasped the hand of the captain. 

“ I thank you ! ” he said, with a broken voice. “ I 
thank you from the bottom of my heart. But for the 
present I can tell you nothing. Believe me, I did not 
shoot Fellows ; I have not seen him once since I parted 
with him in Sixth Avenue,” 


4 6 


ON THE RACK. 


“ I am very sorry you do not treat me with greater 
confidence,” said the captain, as he rose from his seat. 

“ It is not because I have not confidence,” replied 
Frank. “ It is because all this is so strange and horrible. 
I am not accustomed to this degradation. By and by, 
when I have had time to get used to it — to think it over 
— when I have slept on it — I may be more frank, but 
now, I can say no more.” 

“ Do you want to see any one ?” asked the captain. 

“ Not yet.” 

“ Have you any messages to send ? ” 

“ Merely to my mother, to say I will not be at home 
to-night.” 

“ Can I do anything else for you ? ” 

“ Nothing that I am aware of.” 

The captain left him, and in passing out he said to the 
sergeant : 

“ Let Mr. Pemberton remain until I return. You 
need not put the irons on again. Only watch him that 
he does no harm to himself.” 

He went out into the street. 

Frank, thus left alone, reviewed his interview with the 
captain. He felt that he had not bettered his condition, 
so far as the captain was concerned. But that was far 
better than bringing Marion’s name into the affair. He 
felt surer of himself after the talk. He was not yet 
frightened, and he knew that he would not have to stand 
or fall upon what he told or withheld from Captain Law- 
ton. The captain might exert a powerful influence upon 
his situation ; but, after all, he was not the arbiter of his 
fate. As yet Frank did not know how strong was the 
case against him. 

There was another stir outside. He heard a strange 
voice. Then he heard the sergeant. 


A VALUABLE AID. 


47 


“ I don’t know that Captain Lawton would permit it.” 

“ Oh yes, he will. I met him outside. Here’s his 
order.” 

“ All right, then,” said the sergeant ; “ you can 

go in.” 

There was a quick, springing step over the floor. 
The doorway was darkened for a moment and a young 
man entered with a breezy air. 

“ How do you do, Mr. Pemberton ? ” said a cheery 
voice. 

Frank rose with instinctive politeness to greet his 
visitor, and put forward his hand with that doubtful 
manner a man uses when he fails to recognize the person 
who addresses him. 

“ You don’t know me, of course. My name is Bryan 
— better known as Tom Bryan of the Sol." 


CHAPTER VII. 

A VALUABLE AID. 

T OM BRYAN threw himself upon the lounge in an 
easy, careless manner. From it you might have 
supposed that he did not regard an arrest for murder as 
a matter of any considerable importance, and at no time 
serious. 

“Do you object to smoking, Mr. Pemberton?” he 
asked, as he took several cigars from his pocket. 

Frank politely replied that he did not. 

“Perhaps,” continued Tom, as he extended his cigars 
to Frank, “perhaps you will smoke,” 


4 8 


ON THE RACK. 


There was such an absence of constraint, such an air 
of good fellowship, and such a suggestion of being on 
good terms with himself and everybody else, that Frank, 
won by him, smiled and selected a cigar. 

“ I have been doing the society act for the last three 
hours at the house of a friend, and am dying for a 
smoke,” Tom rattled on, as he handed Frank his match 
box. “By Jove, a man doesn’t appreciate a cigar who 
smokes all the time. To thoroughly enjoy one, he should 
deprive himself of it as long as he can stand it.” 

He lit his own, drawing in the smoke slowly and 
emitting it leisurely. 

“That’s good,” he continued. “I met you once be- 
fore, Me. Pemberton. I suppose you’ve forgotten it. 
It was at the yacht race last fall. I know a good many 
people you do. Many of your friends are my friends. 
What is there about this shooting? Lawton says you 
say you didn’t do it.” 

“ I didn’t,” replied Frank, rather taken aback by Tom’s 
headlong manner of going at the matter. 

“The circumstantial evidence is pretty strong against 
you, Mr. Pemberton.” 

“ So Captain Lawton says. But nevertheless it is not 
true.” 

“ Well,” said Tom, between the puffs of his cigar and 
lolling over the arm of the lounge, “ I don’t take much 
stock in circumstantial evidence — unless it is backed up 
with something direct. I’ve had too many lessons to be- 
lieve in it much, I can tell you. Do you want to tell me 
your story? Talking to me, you know, is not like talk- 
ing to an official, though I’m likely to print what you say 
unless you talk to me in confidence.” 

“ I have nothing to tell,” said Frank, “ for I don’t know 
what is alleged against me, except the bare fact that I 


A VALUABLE AID. 49 

am charged with shooting Clarence Fellows. I did not 
shoot him. That is all I can say.” 

“I always thought you and Fellows were friends — 
chums,” said Tom. 

“So we were for fifteen years.” 

“Yet you have recently quarreled.” 

“ A month ago we had a difference about — a matter 
wholly private. He charged me with doing him a wrong. 
I did not think so. The bitterness, however, was all on 
his side — not on mine.” 

“Yet you were very angry with him last night on Sixth 
Avenue.” 

“That is true. I had just then found he had done 
myself and another a grievous wrong — a great injury. 
And when I came upon him I was in the full tide of my 
indignation. I told him what I thought of his conduct.” 

“And threatened him.” 

“Perhaps so. I don’t know. I was very angry. I 
didn’t mean it — I don’t know, though. I think if I had 
not been prevented I would have done him bodily 
harm.” 

Tom stopped swinging his foot, and looked Frank 
keenly and steadily in the face. What it was that had 
caused his earnest attention, or what thoughts crossed 
his mind, he did not make manifest in his next remark. 

“ It is one of the counts against you,” he said. “ Can 
you tell me what.it was all about ?” 

“ No ; I can tell no one ; not because of myself, but 
of another person.” 

“ Ah, I see ! ” 

Tom bent another look of keen scrutiny upon Frank. 

“I suppose,” he said slowly and thoughtfully, “I 
suppose you see that your refusal to tell how you spent 
last evening argues against you.” 


5 ° 


ON THE RACK. 


“ I cannot help it. There are other interests to serve 
than my own.” 

“By Jove, they must be strong if to serve them you 
jeopardize yourself ! ” 

“ They are.” 

Again Tom keenly regarded Frank. Evidently his 
interest in the man under arrest was aroused. He as- 
sumed a sitting position, and for a long time studied 
Frank’s face, as he could easily, since Frank had re- 
lapsed into profound thought. 

“ See here, Pemberton,” he said, at length, “ do you 
know what the facts are against you ? ” 

“No.” 

“ I’ll tell you. The body of Clarence Fellows was 
found on Twentieth Street, not far from Fourth Avenue. 
In the pockets was found a letter from you, in which 
you speak of a quarrel which has lasted long enough, 
and in which you have both been fools.” 

“ I wrote such a letter to him.” 

“ The fact that all his valuables and money were 
found upon him, puts the suggestion that robbery was 
the motive of the murder out of the way. Not far dis- 
tant from the body was found a revolver. On it was en- 
graved your name.” 

“ He had such a revolver. He took it from my room 
over a year ago.” 

“Um!” ejaculated Tom, again regarding Frank 
steadily. “ That being capable of proof, the theory of 
suicide might be set up. Well, to go on. Inquiry has 
elicited the fact that you had quarreled with Fellows, or, 
to be accurate, Fellows had with you, over a young 
lady.” 

Frank winced at this. 

“ That there was a forced reconciliation between you, 


A VALUABLE AID . 


51 


which was really no reconciliation ; that last night you 
met him in Sixth Avenue, and that there he was the coot 
one and you the angry one ; that you denounced him 
for wrongs committed by him, charging him with an en- 
deavor to blacken the fame of a young woman, name 
unknown, but presumably the same young lady over 
whom you had quarreled/' 

Frank winced again. 

“ That you threatened to kill him, calling out loudly, as 
he was forced away, that you would crush him ; that 
when you were forcibly separated, you walked away en- 
raged, and, jumping into a carriage in which a lady was 
awaiting you, you drove away and disappeared ; that 
when you were next seen, it was nearly one o’clock in 
the morning, in another part of town, and in a part of 
the town where Fellows was lying dead — just killed — 
five blocks away only ; that you were then highly ex- 
cited and agitated ; that contrary to your custom, you 
drank heavily, and of brandy ; that when Fellows’s 
name was mentioned, you flew into a passion, declaring 
that he did not deserve to live, and walked away in 
great excitement. Now you perceive that when you put 
these facts close together they make a pretty strong 
case of circumstantial evidence. A deep feeling of 
anger exists between you ; each charges the other with 
having grievously wronged him ; you strive to inflict a 
blow on Fellows ; when prevented, you threaten to kill 
him; Fellows is killed, and not from motives of rob- 
bery ; he is killed by a revolver which has your name 
on it — presumably yours ; and you are found shortly 
after the hour, at which it is thought he is killed, in the 
immediate neighborhood, greatly agitated and drinking 
heavily, contrary to your habits.” 

“Yet I did not shoot Clarence Fellows." 


5 2 


ON THE EACH. 


“And to crown it all, you refuse to account for your 
time.” 

“ Only for that time between my leaving my friends at 
dinner and my meeting Fellows.” 

“ I understand you will not tell who the young lady is 
you went away with, where you went to, and how you 
spent the intervening time between then and one o’clock. 

“ Who the young lady is, of course, I will not tell. You 
must see, Mr. Bryan, that if I have any respect for the 
lady, and I have the very highest, I cannot permit her 
name to enter into an affair of this kind. If I could tell 
you the nature of the act of Fellows which made me so 
angry, you would see it more clearly, and, if I do not mis- 
judge you, you would commend my policy of silence on 
that part of the matter. But I can say to you that I drove 
the young lady to her house, which is on a street higher 
up than the one near which I had the quarrel with Fel- 
lows and not far from Fifth Avenue. I did tell Captain 
Lawton that when I left her I walked a long distance up 
town, to calm myself after the altercation, and then 
walked back again. I was on my way to my home in 
Fourteenth Street, between Third and Second Avenues, 
when I met two acquaintances — Cox and Dalrymple — at 
the Union Square Hotel. I had been greatly shaken by 
the events of the night, and was still much agitated when 
I met them. I had drank nothing until then, and drank 
only with a view to steadying myself.” 

“ But you cannot prove your walk ? ” 

. “No.” 

“ Not by the young lady ? ” 

“ I cannot — I cannot drag her name in. But all the 
same, Mr. Bryan, I am guiltless of this shooting.” 

Tom was silent a long time. With his elbows resting 
upon his knees, his eyes bent on the floor, and vigorously 


A VALUABLE AID. 


53 


chewing the end of his cigar, he was lost in thought. 
Finally he jumped up, and putting forward his hand 
impulsively to Frank, who took it, somewhat surprised 
by the action, exclaimed : 

“ I’ll be hanged if I don’t believe you, Mr. Pember- 
ton.” 

“ It is the truth,” replied Frank quietly. 

“You can count on me as your friend in this matter, 
Mr. Pemberton. The cry will be against you. All the 
fools run hot and wild after a case of circumstantial 
evidence. They think they are very shrewd when they 
can construct a theory on it. But a theory is no good if 
it is a wrong one. Don’t let yourself get down. I ex- 
pect the young lady must come to your aid.” 

Frank shook his head. 

“ Well, all right. Btit, my dear fellow, you must see a 
lawyer. It won’t do for you to attempt to run this thing 
alone. You know what they say about a man who has 
himself for a client. I am in earnest, though. I presume 
they will take you to the Tombs to-night.” 

Frank made a gesture as if he would say it was a mat- 
ter of indifference what they did with him, now that they 
had arrested him. 

“ Don’t make a mistake through indifference or ob- 
stinacy, or that feeling of resentment which makes a man 
reckless. It is the easiest thing in the world to hang an 
innocent man. Plenty have been through this confounded 
circumstantial evidence. I know more than one man 
sent to state prison, guilty of no crime. So let me go to 
a -lawyer for you.” 

Tom had won Frank from the beginning by his earn- 
estness, and his reasoning now influenced him. 

“ Very well,” said Frank, “ if you will take the trouble, 
Mr. Bryan ” 


54 


ON THE RACK. 


“Hang it all,” interrupted Tom, “don’t talk about 
trouble in such an affair.” 

“ Very well, then,” said Frank, conscious of a lump in 
his throat. “ If you will call upon Mr. Whitney, No. — 
Thirty-sixth Street, I shall be obliged. He is a son of 
our Mr. Whitney. Tell him what you think best, and 
ask him to see me at his earliest convenience.” 

“ All right. Got everything you want, cigars and the 
rest, you know ? I’ll see some clothes are sent you. 
What’s your number ? ” 

“ For Heaven’s sake, don’t alarm my mother.” 

“ Trust me for that. I’m a liar from afar off. I must 
be going if I am to do all these things and my work be- 
sides. How much of what you have told me can I 
print?” 

“Whatever you think best,” replied Frank. 

Frank had put himself unreservedly in Tom’s hands, 
as so many before him had done, won by Tom’s energy, 
sympathy, and heartiness. 

And he had done well in doing so. A man in trouble 
could have no more loyal or efficient aid than Tom when 
his sympathies and interests were aroused. 

Captain Lawton returned very shortly after Tom’s de- 
parture, and gave instructions for Frank’s removal to the 
Tombs, giving the necessary papers to the officers for his 
confinement there. 

“You have had a visitor since I have been gone, Mr. 
Pemberton ? ” said the captain. 

“Yes. Mr. Bryan.” 

“ Tom is a good fellow,” said the captain. “You do 
well to make a friend of him. When Tom chooses to 
exert himself, he can do a great deal. Did you give him 
your confidence ? ” 

Not a little jealousy prompted this question. Tom 


A VALUABLE ALD. 55 

had more than once won the confidence of a newly ar- 
rested prisoner, where Captain Lawton had failed. 

“ I told him no more than I told you. But he showed 
me the danger I was in — how strongly circumstances 
ran against me.” 

The captain turned sharply on Frank, regarding him 
severely. Then he asked abruptly : 

“ What did he tell you ? ” 

Frank briefly related to the captain the story told him 
by Tom. 

“ Hang it,” muttered the captain, “ where did he get 
it all. He knows as much as I do, and I have had a 
dozen men at work all day ; perhaps he knows more, 
since he knows anything. I never saw such a fellow for 
getting at the bottom of things.” 

He turned away, and after indicating to the officers 
that they could take their prisoner away, sat down at the 
sergeant’s desk and made memoranda. 

As the distance was long and a conveyance of some 
kind necessary, Frank asked that a carriage might be 
called, adding, with a smile, that he had not yet become 
accustomed to being in custody, and did not fancy it, 
especially in public. 

The captain assented, and. they were driven to the 
Tombs. 

Arriving, he was searched. The second humiliation. 
All his valuables, indeed all the articles in his pockets, 
were taken from him, and he was conducted to his 
cell. 

The clangor of the gate as it was shut upon him sounded 
in his ears like the death knell of his hopes. It pro- 
duced upon him an impression from which he never fully 
recovered until after the conclusion of the trial, and he 
knew the worst. 


5 ^ 


ON THE RACK. 


He, however, made a brave effort to bear up against 
it, and to assume as cheerful a spirit as he could. 

He looked around his narrow quarters, and as he sat 
himself upon his cot, he said to himself : 

“ Admitted to the firm in the morning and in jail at 
night.’" 


CHAPTER VIII. 


ACTIVE FRIENDSHIP. 


TIS WHITNEY was a young lawyer, the son of 



Robert Whitney, of the firm of Evans, Whitney & 
Co. He was a young man of unquestioned ability. He 
had been highly educated, and had on graduating day 
carried off high honors. As his father was a man of very 
* large wealth, he could have chosen a life of luxury and 
idleness. But he was ambitious to make a career for 
himself, and had chosen the law as a profession. 

While a man of ability, he was by no means brilliant. 
But he possessed industry, the power of application, 
dogged pertinacity, and determination to succeed. And 
he did succeed at school, in college, and in the study of 
the law, where others far more brilliantly equipped had 
failed. These qualities, early manifested, had lifted him 
high in the family esteem, and he was held to be of 
great promise. The consequence was that from an 
early period of his life incense had been burned before 
him, until the man had an abnormally developed opinion 
of himself and of his importance. He had been praised 
in college by the faculty beyond his merits, because, hav- 
ing a large allowance from his proud father, he had not 
permitted its temptations to divert him from his studies. 


ACTIVE FRIENDSHIP. 


57 


When he read law, he was placed apart from his fellows 
by the fact that he was not compelled to earn money 
while prosecuting his studies. His connections being 
influential and powerful, he was deferred to from the 
beginning. The effect of all this was to make him self- 
sufficient and intolerant of other people’s opinion. That 
which he gained in knowledge and understanding being 
by hard work, he measured its value by the trouble it 
has cost him to obtain it; consequently, having a large 
opinion of his own mental powers, lie doubted the knowl- 
edge of others who obtained it by less effort. Lacking 
in the higher qualities of imagination and fancy, slow in his 
own processes, and arriving at his own conclusions by 
the laborious aids of logic, he looked with contempt upon 
those who possessed them. Lacking in humor, the nim- 
ble-witted also annoyed him, and he regarded all such as 
frivolous. He was therefore self-sufficient, intolerant, 
narrow-minded, opinionated, and arrogant. 

When he was admitted to practice, his father assisted 
him to clients, but it must be admitted that if his father and 
his friends sent him clients he managed their affairs well. 

It was to this pompous young man that Tom went, in 
the interest of Frank, on leaving him at the station 
house. He found him at his residence and delivered his 
message, telling all that he could of the matter — indeed, 
all that was known by anybody except Frank and Marion. 

Young Whitney was inexpressibly shocked. He had 
been more or less familiar with Frank since his boyhood, 
and well understood the high esteem in which Frank was 
held, and the hope entertained by the firm of which his 
father was a member. 

“ This is the ruin of a life of bright promise,” he said 
solemnly and meditatively. 

Tom, whose bump of reverence was not at all de- 


ON THE RACK. 


58 

veloped, and who regarded few men as worthy of defer- 
ence, replied bluntly : 

“ I don’t agree with you.” 

Young Whitney was not at all pleased with the blunt 
and dogmatic assertion, and he frowned magnificently 
at the imperturbable journalist, sitting as much at his 
ease in the young lawyer’s library as when talking with 
Frank at the station house. So determining to crush 
Tom at once, he said sarcastically : 

“Ah ! it is to be regretted you do not agree with me.” 

It was all lost upon the unblushing Tom. 

“ No, I don’t,” repeated Tom, more positively than be- 
fore. “ Your remark is the kind of commonplace friends 
of a man in trouble usually indulge in, instead of hust- 
ling around to prevent the ruin. It makes me tired.” 

Ye gods ! He, Otis Whitney, told to his face that he 
uttered commonplaces ; that he ought to actually hustle 
around, and that a common newspaper fellow could be 
tired at anything he could say ! He was speechless with 
amazement. It was so foreign to anything his ears were 
accustomed to, that he was not even angry. He was 
simply surprised. 

“ Mr. Pemberton is in danger,” continued Tom ; “in 
great danger. The circumstances, unfortunately, are 
strongly against him. If his friends stand apart, biting 
their nails and giving utterance to kindergarten philoso- 
phy, he maybe ruined.” 

“ What are you to him ? ” arrogantly asked young 
Whitney. 

“ Nothing. But I believe him innocent of this charge.” 

“ You do. Upon what do you base this belief? ” 

“ Largely upon intuition.” 

“Intuition!” repeated Whitney, with ineffable con- 
tempt, glad to get in this blow upon Tom. 


ACTIVE FRIENDSHIP. 


59 


He did not know the irrepressible journalist. 

“Of course,” said Tom, “ I don’t expect you to take 
any stock in that. It is a cut above your training. This 
dealing with the law and the habit of highly-trained legal 
intellects of bringing everything down to the test of logic 
and practicability, dulls certain senses and faculties of 
the mind, which, if given sway and developed, serve men 
a great deal better than all of your dry-as-dust methods. 
Of course,” continued Tom argumentatively and com- 
placently, “ it is not given to every mind to possess 
them. They go with the higher order of intellects. But 
we know the fact well in journalism. For instance, I 
know Pemberton is innocent. It amounts to a profound 
conviction with me ; yet, just now, I cannot give you a 
single reason why I believe it. My convictions are a 
result of studying the man while he was talking to me of 
the charge. I am rarely mistaken in my judgment of 
men.” 

“ Oh,” sneered Whitney, for he was much irritated by 
Tom’s tone and manner, “your methods must be valu- 
able. You have had great experience, I presume.” 

“A great deal,” promptly replied Tom. “A great 
deal with criminals and men charged with crime. That 
is the great .school for the study of human nature. I 
have had great experience in the unraveling of dark and 
knotty cases, as you must know if you are a reader of the 
Sol; and if you are, you will know I have not been un- 
successful.” 

“ I do not read the Sol," interjected the young lawyer, 
in a tone suggesting that he thought he ought to be com- 
mended in not doing so. 

“ A great mistake,” continued Tom. “I see you are 
displeased with my plain speech. It is my habit. I have 
no apologies to make. I am stating facts. I reach con- 


6o 


ON THE RACK. 


elusions from intuitions and inspirations, without reasons. 
I am rarely, if ever, mistaken. And the older I grow and 
the more occasion I have to exercise this faculty, the 
fewer mistakes I make. Having reached my conclusions, 
I set out to make the facts conform to the conclusions. 
I can easily believe that you think this fanciful to the 
last degree. It isn’t. It is only uncommon among men. 
It is the quality which distinguishes men of genius from 
men of average ability. Do you suppose that Edison 
constructed the phonograph by the same laborious process 
that a builder erects a house, stone upon stone and brick 
upon brick, or that you build up the testimony of a case ? 
No, the instrument sprang into being at once in his mind, 
and all the years he was bringing it to perfection he was 
making natural laws conform to his heaven-born con- 
ception — going back looking for reasons to sustain his 
inspiration — his intuitions. If you could get inside the 
minds of the men who stand at the top of your profes- 
sion, head and shoulders above the test, you would find 
that at a bound they leaped to their conclusions, and that 
their labor consisted of finding reasons, and rule, and 
arguments to sustain the faith that is in them.” 

Mr. Whitney began to be interested. He had never 
met just such a specimen before — one who was not awed 
by his magnificence, was not deferential, and who had 
audaciously weighed him and found him wanting, who 
evidently considered himself to be superior to him, and 
who boldly told him so, without apparent egotism of 
manner. He was irritated while interested. 

“Don’t think,” continued Tom, with easy assurance, 
“ because you are a lawyer you have all the knowledge. 
It is the way of you lawyers, but there is a great deal 
you never dream of which is picked up by the journalist 
in the practice of his profession, You may think be- 


ACTIVE FRIENDSHIP. 


61 


cause you aim at social distinction, and I don’t care a 
rap for it ; that, because you earn thousands where I do 
a dollar, that I must concede your vast superiority. 
Well, I don’t. I am a human philosopher, and prefer 
my^wayoflife to yours — precisely as Diogenes did his 
to that of Alexander. Now, having eased my mind, let 
us get down to business. Go and see Pemberton. Be- 
lieve in his innocence. You will thank me some day 
for insisting upon it. At first public sentiment will run 
straightway to a conviction as to his guilt. We want to 
build up a counter public sentiment. I will do my part. 
Enlist your father in a belief in Pemberton’s innocence — 
that will be a good start — his own partner, you know.” 

“ The facts as you relate them would at present con- 
vict Pemberton,” said Whitney. 

“ Of course they would.” 

“His refusal to tell where he spent the night is very 
damaging.” 

“No doubt of it.* But doubtless he will confide in 
you.” 

“ He must, if I am to help him at all.” 

“ Of course.” 

“ There must be a woman at the bottom of it all.” 

“ There always is.” 

“ 1 wonder who the woman was waiting for him in the 
coach.” 

“The woman, doubtless.” 

“ Yes ; doubtless the woman. Pemberton, however, 
has never been accused of going in that direction.” 

“A man is a man, and an unmarried man especially.” 

“ It could hardly have been Miss Standish ! ” 

“Who?” 

“Miss Standish — Miss Marion Standish, the young 
lady to whom Pemberton is engaged. A very fine girl 


6 2 


ON THE RACK. 


— an admirable young lady. She lives not far from 
here — No. — East Thirty-seventh Street.” 

“ Um ! ” 

Tom was thoughtful for a moment or two. 

Then he leaped to his feet saying : 

“ I must go. I’ve a great deal to do to-night. I’ve 
talked too long. Will you go to see Pemberton ?” 

“ Yes ; of course.” 

“This evening? I hope you will. Pemberton is 
inclined to talk too freely. He wants some one of your 
weight and authority to impress upon him the danger of 
this and the necessity of maintaining his own counsel. 
Lawton has been at him already, but no damage was 
done, for Pemberton had not then recovered from the 
shock of his arrest and was rather dazed. He’ll be at 
him, however, early to-morrow morning.” 

“ I will go at once, but I would like to have a little more 
talk with you on the case.” 

“I really haven’t the time. I have told you all I 
know and a great deal more besides.” 

He hurried away. He had received an idea and he 
proposed to act on it right away. 


CHAPTER IX. 

Marion’s revelation. 

r PHREE hours had passed since the arrest of Frank. 

1 As this had occurred at five it was now eight o’clock. 
It was at that hour that Tom Bryan descended the steps 
of the younger Mr. Whitney’s residence. He stood on 
the pavement a moment or two thinking. Finally, in the 


MARION'S REVELATION 63 

tone of one who has reached an irrevocable conclusion, 
he said : 

“ I’ll do it. She can do no more than refuse.” 

He hastened on, for he was bent upon a call on Marion 
Standish. The moment Mr. Whitney had mentioned her 
name as being the fiancte of Frank, .Torn had leaped to 
the conclusion that she was the one who had waited for 
Frank in the carriage at the corner of Twenty-seventh 
Street and Sixth Avenue. With that rapid grouping of 
facts which had become the habit of his mind, he had 
seized upon one or two expressions of Frank, uttered 
during their talk, as helping to that conclusion. They 
were that Clarence “ had done a grievous wrong to him- 
self and another person; that he (Frank) could not 
bring a person, whom he regarded with the highest 
esteem, into such an affair.” 

So conclusive did this appear to his mind that the 
question uppermost was not whether she was in fact the 
woman, but whether she would talk of the affair. It 
was this consideration which had caused him to stop in 
thought, on the pavement, in front of the Whitney resi- 
dence. 

He did not think she would, if she had heard of 
Frank’s arrest. If she had not, the chances largely were 
that he could startle her into a revelation. That he was 
justified in doing this, in order to help Frank, he had no 
difficulty in persuading himself. 

He argued that before he could do intelligent or 
effective work for Frank, he must know all the ins and 
outs of the case — where the weak and dangerous places 
were. And if it were to be done at all, it must be done 
then, for the morning papers the next day would contain 
a full account of the murder and of the arrest of Frank, 
when, of course, it would be too late. 


6 4 


ON THE RACK. 


The distance from Mr. Whitney’s house to that of 
Colonel Standish was not long, and therefore a few 
minutes after he had left Mr. Whitney, he was ringing 
the door-bell of Colonel Standish. 

When the servant appeared, he handed his card and 
requested that it be given Miss Standish with the mes- 
sage that his call was one of serious business. 

He was ushered into an apartment brilliantly lighted. 
Marion came from another room immediately, looking 
inquiringly at her visitor. As Tom rose on her entrance, 
he directed upon her a deep, searching look, as if he 
would read her character preparatory to engaging in a 
struggle of wits with her. What he saw was a tall, well- 
formed young lady of graceful carriage and a distinct air 
of refinement. Her head was well poised on her shoul- 
ders, and her face one that is called handsome rather than 
pretty, for it was strong and full of character. Her eyes 
were dark and luminous, and her manner gracious and 
winning. 

“ Miss Standish ? ” he inquired. 

The lady bowed. 

“ Miss Marion Standish ?” 

The lady smiled and answered : 

“There is but one Miss Standish ; please be seated.” 

Tom resumed his seat and Marion sank into an easy- 
chair beside him. Tom doubtless was not conscious of 
the intentness of the look he had directed upon her. 
But she was, and her curiosity was greatly piqued. So 
intent indeed was his look, that an air of unusual gravity 
was imparted to Tom, but as there was in it no indica- 
tions of an impudent audacity, it was not resented by 
Marion. Tom himself summed up her character in these 
four words : 

“ Plucky, nervy, brainy, devoted.” 


MARION'S REVELATION. 65 

“ Miss Standish,” he said, “ it is proper I should tell 
you who I am before I declare the purpose of my call. 
I am a reporter of the Sol.” 

An expression of wonder flitted over her face, and 
Tom, keenly observant, noted it. 

“ It is proper,” he continued, “ that you should know 
this. Some people are rather nervous over talking with 
the particular kind of wild animal I am, and feel them- 
selves much grieved if they are entrapped without due 
warning.” 

“You do not appear to be a very ferocious animal, 
Mr. Bryan,” said Marion, much amused and greatly 
pleased with him and his frankness and brightness. 

“I am not, and I hope I may further commend myself 
to you by informing you that I am a friend of Mr. Pem- 
berton — not in the sense that I am a social companion, 
but as one greatly interested in him and desirous of 
serving him.” 

Marion sat upright. The blood left her face, leaving 
her of deadly paleness, then surged up, flooding it 
deeply, to fade away again as quickly. Tom’s tone 
alone had alarmed her. With great earnestness she said : 

“ He is in trouble ! ” 

“Yes,” simply said Tom, admiring her greatly, now 
that she was in action and alert. 

“ With Clarence Fellows ? ” 

“Yes.” 

“ I feared it would be so if they met. Tell me all 
about it,” she demanded, rather imperiously. 

Tom hesitated a moment before beginning, debating 
with himself as to whether he should tell her the news at 
once or whether he should break it gradually. He de- 
termined upon the latter course. 

“ It is somewhat serious,” he said. “ But I doubt 


66 


ON THE RACK. 


whether it is of the kind you suppose. Evidently you 
think that he met Clarence Fellows after he left you 
this afternoon. That is not so, however, and so you can 
dismiss that idea from your mind.” 

Marion was relieved. She feared another altercation 
had taken place between Frank and Clarence. Tom 
noted this, but determining to pile up his words while he 
accustomed her to the thought that Frank was in 
trouble, he went on : 

“ But I warn you that the trouble is somewhat serious, 
and I beg that when I inform you of it, in the interest 
of Mr. Pemberton, you will take fast hold of and control 
yourself. Let me ask you first, whether you are aware 
of an altercation which took place between Mr. Pember- 
ton and Mr. Fellows last night?” 

“ Oh, do not waste time upon anything of that kind,” 
cried Marion, unable to control herself, “ but tell me of 
Mr. Pemberton’s trouble.” 

“ Can you be strong ? Can you be strong enough to 
sustain a shock ! ” he asked. 

“ Strong enough to bear anything but this suspense,” 
she replied imploringly. 

“ Mr. Pemberton has not seen Mr. Fellows since he 
parted with you at five o’clock,” said Tom. “ Mr. Fel- 
lows is dead.” 

“ Dead ! ” 

Her head swayed as if she were about to faint. Tom 
leaped to his feet. But by an effort she took possession 
of herself and motioned with her hand for Tom to be 
seated again. 

“Tell me when he died,” she asked, with forced 
calmness. 

“ It is supposed last night.” 

“ Oh ! ” 


MARION'S REVELATION. 67 

The ejaculation seemed to say, “then Frank had 
nothing to do with it.” 

Somewhat more in possession of herself and certainly 
calmer, she said : 

“ Tell me the particulars.” 

“ He was found dead on Twentieth Street, early yes- 
terday morning,” replied Tom. “ It is supposed he 
died between twelve and one.” 

“ What a horrible death ! ” she exclaimed, her tones 
full of sympathy. She was silent for a moment, with 
eyes upon the floor. Tom studied her face. 

“I have great sympathy for poor Mr. Fellows ! ” she 
said at length. “ I did not know him very well. I 
met him last summer out of town. But certain events of 
the past fall prevented a renewal of our acquaintance. I 
have not met him since then. What I know of him I 
have principally learned from Mr. Pemberton.” 

As she concluded, she lifted her eyes to Tom, who 
was regarding her steadily. 

“ As sad as is his death, however, I cannot tell why 
you should call to inform me of it,” she continued. 
“You must have some purpose you have not revealed.” 

“ Mr. Fellows’s death was a violent one. He was 
shot.” 

The blood left Marion’s face again, and an expression 
of intense fright came into her eyes as she stared at 
Tom ; her lips paled and her breath came slowly and 
with labor. 

“ When was he killed ? ” 

“ Last night or very early this morning.” 

“ And they suspect Mr. Pemberton ? ” 

“ I regret to tell you they do.” 

She took fast hold of the sides of her chair; then, 
suddenly, there came a revulsion. Her eyes brightened 


68 


ON THE RACK. 


and an unmistakable expression of relief passed over her 
face. 

“ They are mistaken ; Mr. Pemberton left me at 
eleven o’clock last night and came here early this morn- 
ing, spending the whole day here. He knew nothing to- 
day of Mr. Fellows’s death.” 

To her, her logic was irresistible. She was greatly 
comforted. 

“I agree with you, Miss Standish,” said Tom, “that 
the authorities are mistaken. I am quite certain that 
Mr. Pemberton has not seen Mr. Fellows since he had 
that altercation with him on Sixth Avenue, between nine 
and ten o’clock last night. But it is a very different 
thing, this being certain yourself and convincing the 
authorities of the same thing.” 

“ But the suspicion is absurd,” eagerly persisted 
Marion. “ We spent the morning of to-day discussing 
the course we should pursue, respecting a certain event 
in which Mr. Pemberton, Mr. Fellows and myself were 
concerned. Had Mr. Pemberton met him after he left 
me last night and quarreled with him, I should have 
known it. It would have come out in our conversation ; 
Heavens ! ” she cried suddenly, as if a new thought had 
broken upon her. “ Do they dare to charge that Mr. 
Pemberton murdered him ? ” 

She sprang up in great agitation and indignation. 

“ It is ludicrous,” she added, laughing hysterically. 
“ No man could have talked as he did with me this 
morning, if he had been guilty of such a deed. It is 
wildly absurd.” 

“ Of course ” ; said Tom soothingly, “ but you see the 
authorities do not know of this.” 

“ I will tell them,” she said, promptly and impera- 


MARION'S REVELATION. 6 9 

tively. “ Where is Mr. Pemberton ? Why does he not 
come to me ? Why has he sent you ? ” 

Tom looked at her searchingly, and with an expres- 
sion of profound pity. 

“ He is under arrest,” he said slowly. 

“ Arrest ! ” 

This time Tom thought she had indeed fainted. She 
tottered on her feet as she uttered a slight moan. He 
sprang to her and caught her as she seemed to be fall- 
ing. It was but for a moment, though. She made a 
great effort and staggered to her chair, into which Tom 
seated her. For a moment she stared helplessly at her 
visitor, and then she again sprang to her feet energet- 
ically. 

“ I’ll go to him. Where is he ? ” 

“One moment, Miss Standish,” pleaded Tom. “I 
have told you tlie worst. I have broken the terrifying 
news to you as gently as my poor skill would let me. 
Please be calm. Seat yourself for a moment, while I 
continue the little else I have to say. I assure you the 
most important help that can be given Mr. Pemberton 
at present is here. It is a time when his friends must 
act wisely, not impulsively. I adjure you, by the love 
you bear Mr. Pemberton, to serve him best by being as 
cool and as collected as you can. You can serve no 
other purpose but sympathy in going to him at present. 
Here is the place to help him.” 

Tom talked fast, in order to assist Marion in regain- 
ing her self-possession. 

“ Oh, but this is horrible, horrible ! ” she moaned. 
“ I cannot believe it ! ” 

“ I know, I know,” said Tom. “ Now please listen to 
me. You have heard the worst. Mr. Pemberton was 
arrested on suspicion as he was leaving your house this 


70 


ON THE EACH. 


afternoon. I have seen him and talked with him since. 
He is bearing up bravely. He asserts his innocence 
manfully. I know he is innocent of the charge.” 

“ That is not to be discussed,” interjected Marion in- 
dignantly. “ There is no question of it.” 

“ Of course there is not,” acquiesced Tom. “ I have 
promised to stand his friend, and I am here in pursuance 
of that promise. I am not without experience in such 
matters. And I know what should be done immediately. 
I have seen his friend, Mr. Whitney, the lawyer, who has 
already gone to him.” 

“ Oh, I’m glad of that.” 

“ But I am bound to tell you, that upon the superficial 
aspect of the case, circumstances tell strongly against 
Mr. Pemberton.” 

“ You — you — his friend — say that ? ” 

“ Understand me, Miss Standish. I do not believe 
them, but the circumstances, unfortunately, are such that 
the authorities are — that they feel themselves justified in 
the course they have taken. The unfortunate differences 
that have for some weeks existed between Mr. Pemberton 
and Mr. Fellows ” 

“ Of which I was the innocent cause,” interrupted 
Marion. 

“ Ah ! ” ejaculated Tom. One point was cleared up. 
He continued : 

“ I say these unfortunate differences, made apparent 
from a letter found in Mr. Fellows’s pocket from Mr. 
Pemberton, speaking of a quarrel and asking for an 
interview to convince Mr. Fellows that he was wrong ” 

“ That should be proof that Mr. Fellows was the 
aggressor.” 

“ And that a pistol with Mr. Pemberton’s name en- 
graved upon it, was found near Mr. Fellows.” 


MAX/ON’S REVELATION . 


71 


“ Ah ! ” 

Tom waited for another remark, but none was made. 

“Then that unfortunate altercation in Sixth Avenue 
early in the evening, when Mr. Pemberton was greatly 
enraged ” 

“ As he had a cause for being.” 

Tom waited for her to go on — but she was waiting for 
him with bated breath. So he did. “ And during which 
he unfortunately threatened Mr. Fellows — threatened to 
kill him.” 

“ Did he do that in his rage? He meant nothing by 
it.” 

“So he says. But worse than all, he refuses to tell 
how he passed the evening previous and subsequent to 
that altercation. He will not tell the authorities, nor 
me. 

“An ! ” 

“ It is known, however, that when he was led away by 
a friend, he suddenly left h+m and leaped into a carriage, 
where a lady was waiting for him and drove off.” 

“ That was myself.” 

“Then he is protecting your name to his own disad- 
vantage.” 

Marion sprang from her seat, crying : 

“ He must not do that ! This is not the time for 
petty considerations. He must tell it all. You tell him 
no — I will tell the authorities. I will have my cloak. 
You will go with me, won’t you ? ” 

She rapidly crossed the room, as if she would ring the 
bell. But Tom followed her, checking her. 

“ First, let us understand whether this would be the 
wise thing to do ; whether it would please Mr. Pember- 
ton ; whether it would help him. To act rashly is gener- 
ally to act foolishly. I will go anywhere with you, you 


72 


ON THE EACH. 


may wish, but let us first understand what we are 
doing.” 

’Thus adjured, she suffered herself to be led back to 
her seat. 

“ Will you not tell me what you were doing in that 
neighborhood at that hour?” 

A more cautious person, or, perhaps, one more expe- 
rienced in the ways of the world, would have thought 
twice before she had given her confidence wholly to a 
man she not only had not known half an hour previously, 
but who had been introduced to her by himself. But 
between her fright and alarm for Frank, the protestation 
of friendship for him by Tom, and that remarkable faculty 
Tom possessed of winning confidence from all sorts of 
people, she set about telling him, without reservation, the 
events of the previous night. She concealed nothing. 

As she talked, Tom clearly saw why Frank was so ob- 
stinately bent upon keeping his own counsel as to his 
whereabouts during that evening. He saw also, that, 
since the subsequent event — the killing of Fellows — there 
was really no point to be gained in concealment of the 
Twenty-seventh Street adventure, and that Marion would 
suffer little in reputation by the telling. He saw, too, 
that Frank had abundant reason for his rage against 
Clarence. But over and above all, he saw clearly, that 
the telling of the story would not serve Frank, but, upon 
the contrary, damage him. Miss Standish could not bear 
any testimony as to what Frank did, or where he went after 
he left her, previous to eleven o’clock. All she had said 
might be true, and yet Frank could easily, after that time, 
have met Clarence, quarreled with him, shot him, and 
still appeared at the Union Square Hotel before one 
o’clock. What she really did bear testimony to, was that 
in this plotting of Clarence, he, Clarence, had given a 


MARION'S REVELATION 


73 


motive to Frank for the committal of the deed with which 
he was charged ; a motive, since Clarence was killed, suf- 
ficiently strong, in the eyes of the public and the prose- 
cution for the act. It might be urged in extenuation 
that there was great and sufficient provocation, but it 
would all tend to fasten the conviction that Frank had 
shot Clarence. As Tom viewed it, while Marion was tell- 
ing the tale, it might be damaging to refuse to account 
for the time spent in Twenty-seventh Street, but it would 
be still more damaging to reveal the events occurring in 
that time. He judged by his own sensations, for he 
found his own confidence in Frank’s innocence consider- 
ably shaken. 

But as Marion concluded, he said : 

“It was wise to talk this over. As I look at it now, it 
would be very unwise to tell this to the authorities. Both 
of us should think it over carefully, and let us promise 
each other that we will not reveal the story until we have 
talked it over once more.” 

“ I do not see why it should not be told ? ” persisted 
Marion. 

“ For this reason : Just at this juncture, when nothing 
is clear and everything only suspicion, the authorities, 
if they came to learn of this dastardly intrigue on the 
part of Fellows, would think that Mr. Pemberton had 
received sufficient provocation — to find in it a motive 
for the deed he is charged with committing.” 

Marion was convinced. But she said : 

“ Oh, I had such hopes from it. But now it seems as 
if my hands were tied in every way, and I can do noth- 
ing for him.” 

“ Whatever is done for him,” said Tom, “ must be done 
not rashly, but with thoughtful consideration.” 

“ Cannot I go to him ? ” 


74 


ON THE RACK . 


“ Not to-night ; for you would not be admitted. The 
best service you can render Mr. Pemberton now is to 
compose yourself and not lose your strength, so that you 
can perform service when necessary. Do not permit 
yourself to grow weak or weary. Keep up your strength 
and courage — you may need it for him. I will see him 
early to-morrow morning, and I will come to you right 
after. Do not lose heart. He is in some danger, as 
every man is in his position, but we will pull him 
through ; we will show his hands to be as white as 
snow. Can I bear a message to him from you ? ” 

“ Yes. Tell him I love him — love him with all my soul 
— and all the more that now he is in trouble.” 

The imperturbable Tom was a little broken up by this 
unexpected message, and when, as he took his leave, 
Marion followed him to the door and grasping his hand 
most warmly in both her own, looked up to him with 
shining eyes and whispered, so that the servant should 
not hear her : 

“ I bless you for your friendship for him.” 

He could not reply, but went out into the street hur- 
riedly. 


CHAPTER X. 

TOM TAKES CHARGE. 

A T an hour later than was his custom, Tom appeared 
at the night editor’s desk, to inform that functionary 
that he was fully informed as to the Fellows’s murder. 
Learning that the editor-in-chief was in his room, an un- 
usual thing at that hour of the night, Tom went to him 
forthwith. 

While it was true that Tom’s confidence in Frank’s in- 


TOM TAKES CHARGE. 


75 


nocence had been shaken by Marion’s revelation, it was 
for a time only. When on the street, as he went to the 
office of his paper, he had reviewed the whole matter 
and had contrasted the story with Frank’s demeanor. 
The result was that he returned to the conviction that 
Frank was innocent. 

His thoughts, framed in words, ran thus : 

“ Pemberton is quite evidently a frank, good-natured 
fellow. As open as a book, right-tempered, without 
malice, and kindly. If he is not, I have forgotten how 
to judge character. There is nothing sly, cunning, or in- 
triguing in his disposition. He couldn’t act a part if he 
wanted to. He is impulsive, and it is quite among the 
possibilities that, outraged as he was, if he had met Fel- 
lows in great heat he might have killed him. He says he 
didn’t. Any man, he or any one else, could say the 
same ; but Pemberton could not have carried himself as 
he did when I talked with him, if he had killed Fellows. 
And if he had, he would have shown it to me, so frank 
and generous is his nature. No ; I am quite certain the 
reason of the death of Fellows must be looked for in 
some other way.” 

Tom wanted full charge of the case, so far as his pa- 
per was concerned. He wanted to be at liberty to give 
such color to his conduct of the case as he chose. This 
was his purpose in seeking the editor-in-chief. 

Fortunately, he found his chief at a moment of leisure, 
and told him the story and his belief in Pemberton’s in- 
nocence. 

“ Well,” said the chief, “ why do you come to me 
about it ? ” 

“ Because,” said Tom, “ I want full charge of the 
case. I would like to be detailed on it, and would like 
to conduct it as seems best to me.” 


76 


ON THE RACK. 


“ There is no doubt about your loyalty to the paper, 
Bryan,” said the chief thoughtfully, “ but according to 
your own recital, are not the proofs very strong against 
Pemberton ? ” . 

“ They are, indeed. But if they should prove to be 
wrong and Pemberton innocent, so much the greater 
credit for the paper to be right from the beginning. 
Circumstantial evidence cannot always be relied upon. 
You recollect the Templeton case, and how strong the 
proofs were against P'ountain to the very point of the 
true revelation.” 

“Yes, I recollect. Your management of that case was 
masterly. You are not accustomed to making mistakes 
in such matter, Byran, and I am inclined to do what you 
wish. Of course, I am relying wholly upon you. I can- 
not judge of the impression Pemberton made upon you, 
but you are detailed in the matter. I will so inform the 
managing editor. But, Bryan, don’t burn every bridge 
behind you, so that you can’t get back, if necessity de- 
mands it.” 

“ Oh, I’ll keep a line of retreat open,” replied Tom, 
glad to escape now that he had gained his point. 

He sat down to his work, and his very first article was 
so deftly colored that it appeared as if Frank had been 
arrested because Frank might have done it, and not be- 
cause of a profound conviction in the minds of the 
authorities that he had. 

Finishing his article, he went straightway home to his 
sleep. As he was making his way to the Tombs early 
the next morning, he came upon Captain Lawton. 

“ Tom,” said that official, “ I’ve been reading your ac- 
count of that murder. Do you mean to say that you 
have any doubt that Pemberton shot Fellows?” 

“ A very large doubt.” 


TOM TAKES CHARGE. 


77 


“ I’m surprised at you.” 

“ Captain, it is a doubt so large that it amounts to a 
conviction.” 

“By George, Tom, I think you take that ground 
simply because we have taken the other. You like to 
put yourself in opposition to us.” 

“ How often have I been mistaken when I differed with 
you ? ” 

“ Oh, those have been mere accidents.” 

“ Accidents or not, the facts have been that I have 
been right. See here, Captain, I will be frank with you. 
I don’t think that I have met a case, where, in the absence 
of actual and positive knowledge, the circumstances 
looked blacker for a man under arrest than they do 
for Pemberton. I will go further, and say that I base 
my belief in the innocence of Pemberton wholly upon the 
man’s demeanor when I interviewed him last night.” 

“Pretty slight grounds, Tom,” said the captain warn- 
ingly. 

“Granted,” laughed Tom in reply ; “but all the same 
I’m going to work on that ground. Count me in the 
opposition. But, I say, have you learned anything as 
to Fellows’s movements after the altercation in Sixth 
Avenue ? ” 

“ One little item only. He returned to his boarding- 
house, in Twenty-first Street, shortly after eleven o’clock, 
spent a short time, and went out again. He was not seen, 
but was heard in his room. He was evidently on his 
way home again when he met Pemberton, and was 
killed.” 

“ Have his rooms been searched ? ” 

“ Yes ; and nothing discovered bearing upon the case. 
They had every appearance that their occupant had left 
them temporarily, expecting to return soon. Upon his 


78 


ON THE RACK. 


writing-table, there was lying exposed a letter, just begun, : 
which was addressed to some person whose name is not 
given, and announces that his long nurtured ambition is 
achieved, and that he has been admitted a partner to the 
firm of Evans, Whitney & Co. There it ended. There 
was but one notable thing in the room, and that was a 
worn, dirty suit of clothes, which had recently been taken 
off, from the manner in which the various articles were 
scattered about.” 

“ Who was the woman waiting for Pemberton in the 
carriage ? ” 

This was cunning of Tom, for in asking the question 
it prevented it being asked him. 

“ I don’t know. I think, however, that we are on the 
track of the driver of the carriage.” 

“ If you find him will you tell me ? ” 

“ I don’t know that I shall, my boy. I’ll make no 
promises. If you were working with us, perhaps I might 
have done so ; but since you have notified me of your 
opposition — no, no ! ” 

“ But you don’t want to be instrumental in putting 
the rope around the neck of an innocent man ?” 

“Of an innocent man? No. But, see here, Tom, 
you should understand my position. I have no pride in 
convicting Pemberton. I proposed to investigate this 
case from an impartial standpoint. Nothing would 
please me better than to see him free. But I intend to 
do my duty.” 

“ Of course, Captain, no one knowing you would expect 
anything else. But I am a free lance, and I shall pro- 
ceed wholly upon the lines of establishing the innocence 
of Mr. Pemberton.” 

“ Go ahead then, my boy, and good luck to you.” 

As they parted from each other, Tom thought that 


TOM TAKES CHARGE. 


79 


the captain had secured a point further fastening the 
coil about Pemberton, or he would not have been so free 
with his information, as slight as it was. The captain 
said to himself that that fellow, meaning Tom, had 
learned something to the advantage of Pemberton. They 
therefore each distrusted the other and both were wrong. 

Tom hastened to the Tombs and was at once admitted 
to Frank, whom he found bearing up most cheerily un- 
der the circumstances. 

“You seem bright and confident,” said Tom. 

“I do not feel much frightened,” replied Frank. “ I 
was last night, and especially after Whitney called on 
me. He takes a very dark view of the case, and all the 
more because I would not tell him of my movements 
night before last. But this morning I have thought the 
whole matter over. I did not shoot Clarence ; I am in 
no way responsible for his death, and I am confident 
that some way out of this miserable business will be 
shown — something will occur to prove my innocence. It 
is not possible in this keen nineteenth century that an 
innocent man can be punished for a crime he did not 
commit.” 

“ I agree with you. But why would you not tell Whit- 
ney as to your whereabouts night before last.” 

“Because I cannot. Not because of myself, but of 
another person who must be protected at all hazards.” 

“ But she is perfectly willing that it should be told.” 

Frank stared at Tom in amazement : 

“What do you mean ? ” he asked. 

“ What I say. I had an interview with Miss Standish 
last night.” 

“ Great Heavens ! ” Frank turned white with fear 
and apprehension. “ Does she know of this miserable 
business?” 


8o 


ON THE RACK. 


“Compose yourself. And while you are trying to do 
it, read this account in the Sol. I wrote it.” 

Frank grabbed the paper and read with avidity. His 
face burned, not with indignation, but with humiliation, 
as he read. When he finished he handed the paper 
back saying : 

“ That was written by a friend.” 

“You’re right. Now I happened to learn last night 
from Mr. Whitney that you were engaged to Miss 
Standish. I jumped to the conclusion that it was she 
who waited for you in the carriage. I went to her and 
gently, — believe me, in spite of the egotism, — gently, 
and with skill, I broke the news to her.” 

“How did she take it?” asked Frank eagerly. 

“ Like the brave little woman she is, and she sent you a 
message that she loved you with all her soul and all the 
more that you were in trouble.” 

Frank’s eyes filled with tears and he put out his hand, 
grasping that of Tom strongly. 

“ She has profound faith in your innocence. It isn’t 
belief, it is instinct.” 

“Oh, blessed instinct,” murmured Frank. 

“ She will stand firmly for you. She wanted to go to 
you last night. But I persuaded her to the contrary.” 

“ I’m glad you did. I could not have stood it last night.” 

“I am to go to her straight from here. She will want 
to see you. Shall I bring her ? ” 

“Yes, yes'; I can bear everything now. I’m strong 
enough. I expect my mother this morning. Whitney 
was to break it to her last night.” 

“Is he the right sort for that work?” asked Tom 
doubtfully. 

“Oh, yes,” replied Frank, smiling. “You and he 
didn’t hit it off last night?” 


TOM TAKES CHARGE. 


Si 


“ No,” said Tom, “we were oil and water. We didn’t 
mix. He attempted to do the grand with me, so I took 
him down several pegs. I took him for a solemn, dull- 
headed prig.” 

“ You were wrong,” replied Frank warmly. “Whitney 
is a real good fellow when you come to know him. Life 
with him has been a little too prosperous, and he has, 
outside his profession, lived a narrow one. But he is 
an upright, direct, wholesome, honest fellow, a stanch 
friend, not one for a summer’s day ; with some peculi- 
arities of character which prevent him from making a 
good impression on strangers. When you come to know 
him well, you will like him and he will like you. He 
was quite provoked with me because I would not tell 
him of my movements night before last.” 

“ That brings me back to the point. I know all about 
it. All about Fellows’s dastardly plot. Miss Standish 
told me all.” 

“All?” 

Frank was aghast. 

“ Yes, all. Now don’t grow indignant. It was well 

she did, because I could warn her to keep that to her- 

self.” 

“ Ah ! I am glad of that. She must be protected.” 

“ She wants none. She wanted to go at once and tell 
it all, in the belief that it would help you. The recital 

of that tale would bring sympathy to her and turn in- 

dignation toward Fellows — it would perhaps bring sym- 
pathy to you. But that was great provocation Fellows 
gave you. In it the authorities would find a motive for 
the deed.” 

This view of the^ase had never occurred to Frank. 
He saw it, however, very clearly now. 

“ The facts conspire against me,” he said. 


82 


ON THE RACK. 


“Yes, they do. All the more reason for you to be 
very guarded in everything you say,” replied Tom 
earnestly. “ It is to impress upon you this fact that I 
told you. Be as confident in your own release as you 
will, but remember that this tangle must be unwoven 
with skill. It is a tangle. Now I want you to let me tell 
this story to Mr. Whitney. He must know it, in order 
that he can take precautions against its being known. 
Do you see ? ” 

“ Do as you will,” said Frank despondently. 

He began to feel discouraged. Every fresh turn in 
the case seemed to make it blacker for him. Tom per- 
ceived his fallen hopes, so he said : 

“ Don’t be hopeless. But do appreciate that you are 
in a very dangerous position. Above all things, do not 
talk to any of the agents of the police or of the prose- 
cuting authorities. To everything they ask, reply that 
you are innocent — reply as you did last night to Lawton 
and myself. Now I’m going. Remember you have a 
friend outside, who is doing little else except working 
to establish your innocence. That’s me.” 

As soon as he left the prison, Tom hurried to Mr. 
Whitney’s office and found that person about going to 
Frank again. Tom briefly told him the result of his in- 
terview with Marion the previous night, and the fear he 
entertained of the result of the story of the Twenty- 
seventh Street episode becoming known. 

“You are right,” said Whitney positively, his respect 
for Tom’s shrewdness rising. “ Very right. For the 
present, at least, it must be concealed. I must call upon 
Miss Standish and impress this upon her.” 

“I did that last night.” • 

“I will do it also. It will come with greater weight 
from me.” 


TO THE RESCUE. 


83 


“ Never mind the weight,” said Tom. “ Her fears for 
Pemberton and her devotion to him will seal her lips. 
All the courts in Christendom couldn’t drag it out of her 
now.” 

“It is fortunate that Pemberton didn’t speak last 
night,” said Whitney, so much taken with the point that 
he did not heed Tom. “ I can’t understand why he 
didn’t speak. She would not have been harmed, in any 
event. It was chivalric, however, on his part.” 

Having performed this duty, Tom hurried away to 
Marion, who awaited him with an almost unbearable 
impatience. 


CHAPTER XI. 

TO THE RESCUE. 

W HILE the events recorded in the preceding chapter 
were occurring, there was consternation in the 
great establishment of Evans, Whitney & Co. 

One partner was dead — murdered. Another was in 
jail, charged with the murder. The doors had been 
closed, and business was suspended. Mr. Whitney, who 
in many respects was the directing brain of the house, 
had sent word that he would not be down during the day, 
but he thought the house should be closed until after the 
burial of Fellows. 

Mr. Evans was in a high state of indignation, bitterly 
denouncing Frank, who, he said, had brought disgrace 
upon the house. Without much consideration, he had 
concluded that all that was alleged against Frank was 


8 4 


ON THE RACK. 


true, simply because it was alleged to be true, and no one 
was present to offer the expression of a doubt. 

Mr. Whitney, however, if not convinced of the falsity 
of the charge, was, at least, in a condition of doubt upon 
the subject, more inclined to believe in the innocence of 
Frank than the contrary. 

Upon his return from his visit to Frank at the Tombs, 
the younger Whitney had gone to his father. It was the 
first intimation the old gentleman had had of the matter 
so closely affecting him. That he was greatly shocked 
and much disturbed may well be supposed. He, too, 
was much influenced by the circumstances, all tending to 
convict Frank of the deed. But his son had asked him to 
suspend his judgment for the present, affirming his own 
belief in Frank’s innocence. Frank’s demeanor, and the 
quiet force with which he asserted that he was not guilty, 
had impressed the younger Whitney as strongly as Tom 
had been. 

Frank was a favorite with the elder Whitney ; far more 
so than Clarence had ever been, and when, to his natural 
inclination to believe the best of Frank, the son in whose 
judgment and ability he placed so much confidence 
added the weight of his opinion, he was almost won ; at 
all events he was prejudiced in Frank’s favor. 

The appeal to him, made by his son, that if there ever 
was a time when Frank needed friends — when his friends 
should not desert him — it was now, was also influencing. 

His mind, therefore, had been well prepared for an up- 
rising of public sentiment against Frank, and he was not 
apt to be swayed by it. 

All this was in pursuance of Tom Bryan’s suggestion ; 
yet if the younger Mr. Whitney had been told that he 
had labored with his father because of Tom’s influence 
upon him, he would have been very angry. 


TO THE RESCUE. 


*5 

The younger Whitney had remained with his father 
until after midnight, and, on leaving, had obtained his 
father’s promise not to go from the house until he had come 
again after his visit to Frank in the morning. The elder 
Whitney, then, in pursuance of this promise, remained at 
home during the morning of the next day, and spent it 
by reading what all the papers had to say upon the affair. 
His conclusion was that the preponderance of public 
opinion was that Frank was guilty ; and that but one 
paper entertained any doubt to the contrary, and that the 
Sol. 

His son came to him about noon, and the elder Whit- 
ney expressed this opinion. 

“ Yes,” said the younger. “ That article in the Sol 
was written by a young man named Bryan. He is a 
shrewd fellow, blunt, and opinionated. He brought me 
news of Pemberton’s arrest — as a message from him. 
And before he went away he told me, practically, he was 
my superior in intellect and training. I think I should 
have been angry with him, if there had not been in his 
manner an utter absence of egotism. He said it as if it 
were fact — uncontrovertable. He is self-reliant, inde- 
pendent in thought and action, with a large experience 
in matters of crime. I was not favorably impressed with 
him when he came to ask me to go to Frank. I have made 
inquiries as to him, however, and find that he is highly 
esteemed by leading members of the bar, not alone for 
his ability and his shrewdness and sagacity almost ab- 
normally developed, but for his strict integrity and en- 
thusiasm. I am further told that he is a natural detec- 
tive, and would have won distinction in that line had he 
followed it. I am beginning to warm up to him for his 
enthusiastic devotion to his belief in Frank’s innocence.” 

“You have not changed your opinion, then ?” 


86 


ON THE RACK. 


“ By no means. I am stronger in my belief than ever, 
though the facts against him I find to be stronger the 
further I get into the case.” 

“ That is singular,” remarked the old gentleman 
quietly. “ You must have proof to the contrary to off- 
set the growth of that against him.” 

“ I have not. I base my belief in the manner in 
which he conducts himself. He is brave and strong- 
hearted, he conceals nothing, talks composedly of the 
very things which tell so strongly against him, denies 
nothing except his guilt. He doesn’t bemoan his fate, 
he has no hard words for anybody, makes no frantic 
appeals, is confident of his ultimate acquittal of the 
charge. All this arises, as you would yourself see, from 
his consciousness of innocence.” 

“ I thought there was something he concealed from 
you last night — a woman in a coach.” 

“ That was Miss Standish, his fiancee .” 

“Ah ! ” said the old gentleman, “ I am glad of that.” 

The younger Whitney was absorbed in thought a mo- 
ment or two, and then looking at his father, he said : 

“ Frank concealed nothing this morning. But it is 
doubtful whether he would have been so frank if Miss 
Standish had not made a full revelation of that which he 
concealed the night previous. He was filled with an 
idea that he must, by silence, protect her, even to his 
own disadvantage. But since it is known, it must be 
concealed in his interest, for it can be used very much 
to his damage, as showing that Fellows gave such prov- 
ocation for the deed that it would not be surprising if 
Frank had killed him. I think I will tell you the whole 
story. You will then see how necessary it is to maintain 
silence upon it.” 

Thereupon he told his father the Twenty-seventh 


TO THE RESCUE. 


87 


Street episode in its entirety. The old gentleman became 
greatly interested in it, and as it proceeded and Clar- 
ence’s turpitude was revealed, he frowned and clenched 
his fists ominously. When the younger Whitney finished, 
the elder asked sternly : 

“ Is this statement susceptible of proof — does it rely 
only upon Frank’s statement?” 

“ No ; Miss Standish is a Witness, of course.” 

“ Any one else — disinterested people ? ” 

“ There are the letters themselves, the policeman on 
duty at the house, the driver of the coach carrying Miss 
Standish there, the two officers in plain clothes, who in- 
. terfered to prevent Frank striking Clarence, and the 
clerk in Frank’s department.” 

“ True, true ; I see. It is hard to believe that Clar- 
ence Fellows could let himself down to such meanness — 
such baseness. But the proofs are direct — irresistible. 
Of course, Frank resented it ; he ought to have re- 
sented it. It makes my blood boil, even at my age, to 
think of it. God ! Otis, what would you have done if 
one of your sisters had been treated that way ? ” 

The young man’s eyes snapped and his face was 
suffused as he looked sternly at his father, who did not 
wait for an answer, but said : 

“ Of course. Precisely. And Marion Standish is as 
dear to Colonel Standish and her honor as precious to 
him as are my daughters and their honor to me. I can 
readily imagine the rage of Frank over it — fine, whole- 
some, manly fellow as he is.” 

He was silent a moment. 

“ By George, he must be cleared — no matter what the 
cost. I will see to the expense. Otis, you must do 
everything that is necessary — everything ; spare no 
money and draw on me for everything.” 


88 


ON THE RACK. 


“ You take a great load off my shoulders ; money is 
needed at the beginning. There are the lawyers who 
must be retained, and at once,” said the younger 
Whitney. “ You know the criminal line is not mine. 
I shall not engage in the case, except as adviser and 
next friend of Frank. But there are eminent criminal 
practitioners whom I want to retain to-day. I will draw 
on you for the retaining fees.” 

“Very well.” 

“ Thanks. It was this very thing I wanted to see you 
about this morning.” 

“ Otis,” said the elder man, “ I would like to see this 
newspaper fellow Bryan. You have excited my curiosity 
as to him. He must be an original.” 

“ He is. I’ll ask him to call upon you.” 

“ Do.” • 

“You must be prepared to hear him express his opin- 
ions positively and without reserve ; to have very little 
respect for yours, and to disagree flatly with you when 
it suits him.” 

“ Oh, that won’t bother me,” laughed the old gentle- 
man, “I like a positive man. If there is anything I 
really do dislike, it is a man without convictions and 
who says yes to everything you say.” 

“ You will find a man, then, after your own heart in 
Bryan.” 

Further conversation between father and son was 
interrupted by the entrance of Mr. Evans. 

“ See here, Whitney,” he cried excitedly. “ This is 
awful business ! ” 

“ Very bad, indeed.” 

“ I should say so ! Awful for the house ! Such a dis- 
grace ! Who would have dreamed that Pemberton 
would turn out a murderer ! ” 


TO THE RESCUE. 


89 


“ I don’t think he has.” 

“ What ! ” 

“ I don’t think that Frank is guilty of the crime he is 
arrested for.” 

Mr. Evans stared with open-mouthed astonishment. 
It was the first opinion of the kind he had heard ex- 
pressed during the day. He did not know what reply to 
make. He had great respect for the opinion of his 
partner. His amazement and perplexity was so plainly 
shown that it was with difficulty that his partner could 
repress a smile. 

“ Why,” he said at length, “ every circumstance goes 
to prove Frank is guilty.” 

“ Yes ; the circumstances are against him.” 

“ Captain Lawton, the great detective, has no doubt 
of it. He has been to see me.” 

“ Such, I understand, is his opinion. But the two 
men who know most about the affair are confident Frank 
is not guilty.” 

“ Who are they ? ” 

“ My son, and a man named Bryan.” 

“ Um 1” Mr. Evans thought a while. “ You know a 
pistol with Frank’s name on it was found near the 
body.” 

“ Yes; but that pistol has been in Fellows’s possession 
for a year or more.” 

“ Oh ! You have heard of his row with Fellows on 
Sixth Avenue. Disgraceful ! He must have been 
drunk. He threatened then to kill Fellows.” 

“ Frank was not drunk and he had abundant cause 
for his anger.” 

“ But that woman in the carriage ! We never knew 
Pemberton was going wrong.” 

“ Jie wasn’t j the woman was all right.” 


9 o 


ON THE RACK . 


Mr. Evans had been met at every point by dogmatic 
assertion, and he was not a little confused. 

“ Now, Evans,” said the elder Whitney, “ the points 
you set up as proving to you that Frank is guilty, can 
be easily met and disposed of. The difficult thing for 
Frank is to account for himself between the hours of 
eleven o’clock, when he left a house in East Thirty- 
seventh Street, and one o’clock in the morning, when he 
appeared in front of the Union Square Hotel.” 

“ But Cox and Dalrymple say he came to them nervous 
and excited.” 

“ That proves nothing to us ; for we know he had 
passed through a very agitating event early in the even- 
ing — an event which would have shaken you or me up. 
Frank says that in order to calm himself he walked up 
Fifth Avenue a long distance, and then walked back 
again to Twenty-third Street, when he took Broadway to 
Seventeenth Street, and from thence to Fourth Avenue, 
and then to the Union Square Hotel. But he was alone, 
and he is unable to say that he met a single person he 
knew or who knew him. Could he find any one to sub- 
stantiate his statement, notwithstanding all the proofs 
against him, he would go free. Here is the difficulty.” 

“ Of course,” said Mr. Evans, skeptical to the last. 
“ And in the absence of that proof everything else counts 
strongly against him.” 

This was so true, that the elder Whitney did not reply. 
The younger one did, however. 

“ Your point is a strong one, Mr. Evans,” he said. 
“ Father, I apprehend, only pointed out that difficulty to 
show the danger Frank is in. However, I do not base 
my belief in his innocence on the fact that all but one cir- 
cumstance may be answered, and therefore the other one 
should not have undue weight, but upon the man himself.” 


TO THE RESCUE. 


91 


Upon what ? ” 

“ Upon his demeanor, on close observation of him as 
he tells his story. He has nothing to conceal and tells 
everything, whether it tells for or against him.” 

“ That can hardly be an offset to the plain proofs 
against him.” 

“ It is a matter of profound, irrevocable conviction 
with me.” 

Mr. Evans did not reply for some minutes. Then 
looking at his partner, he said : 

“Well, we’ll have to reorganize the house again.” 

“ Why?” 

Mr. Evans stared in amazement at his partner. 

“Why? Why Fellows is dead, and we can’t have a 
murderer in the firm.” 

“ My dear Evans, Frank is not convicted yet. Every 
man is innocent until he is proved guilty. Undue haste 
in this matter might prove vexatious to us. Let us 
hasten slowly. Things may take their course without 
damage for a while.” 

“ Perhaps you are right,” replied Mr. Evans. “ In the 
mean time, Fellows is dead.” 

“Yes; and we must look after his burial. I wonder 
when the body will be given up by the authorities?” 

“You can take possession now,” said the son. “The 
coroner’s jury has been empaneled and I am informed 
the coroner will yield up possession at any time.” 

“ Then,” said the father, “ let us send word to Letch- 
ford to take charge at once and do all that is proper and 
necessary.” 

“ Yes,” acquiesced Mr. Evans, “ that must be 
done.” 

While this conversation was going forward in the 
elder Whitney’s house, Tom Bryan was having an 


9 2 


ON THE RACK . 


earnest conversation with a detective placed at his dis- 
posal by Hanford’s Private Agency. 

The purpose of this interview was to tell the detective 
all he knew about Clarence Fellows, with a view of 
sending him out upon an exhaustive inquiry as to the 
surroundings and associations of Fellows. It was his 
first step in the work of proving Frank’s innocence. By 
it he hoped to hit upon something that might be fol- 
lowed with results of advantage. 

Never in his experience had he met with a more dif- 
ficult case. Its very difficulty made him the more 
anxious to prove his intuitions to be correct and the 
authorities wrong. It was eminently characteristic of 
him, that now that he had become an ardent advo- 
cate of Frank’s innocence, he was as earnest as if he 
himself were involved. But as he stood upon the 
threshold of his enterprise he was forced to admit that 
he saw little light ahead, or even a path which, if fol- 
lowed, promised success. 

While he labored, Marion and Frank’s mother were in 
the Tombs weeping over the man Tom was so diligently 
serving. 


CHAPTER XII. 

THE STRENGTH OF WEAKNESS. 

I N two days after his arrest, the wide difference be- 
tween friends and friendly acquaintances was forcibly 
impressed upon Frank. Of all those who had been 
under him for years, and therefore most closely asso- 
ciated with him, but two found a way to express sym- 
pathy with him. The rest had taken their cue from the 


THE STRENGTH OF WEAKNESS. 93 

head of the house, and found their safest course in 
silence. 

He could count, however, upon six sincere friends. 
These were his mother, Marion, Tom Bryan, the 
younger and the elder Whitney, and Colonel Standish. 
The latter had been won to an active and aggressive 
friendship by the tale of Clarence’s outrageous attempt 
to compromise his daughter. And his indignation over 
it was equaled only by his admiration for the manner in 
which Frank had resented it and then had endeavored to 
protect Marion, at his own risk, by silence. 

The one force working upon the public mind in favor 
of Frank was Tom’s writings in his paper. 

This was exerted with consummate skill. The doubt 
as to the accuracy of the conclusions of the police being 
always put to the fore, and the absence of any direct 
evidence always pointed out. 

Tom’s confreres on the other papers were made ex- 
tremely uneasy by the course he pursued. So often had 
it occurred in the past, when they were positively cer- 
tain that they had Tom on his back and would prove 
him to be in the wrong, that he had presented informa- 
tion which turned the tables upon them, that they 
feared that he was preparing a similar coup in this affair. 
This led them to carefully examine every detail of the 
case, which examination ended invariably in a renewed 
and strengthened conviction as to Frank’s guilt. 

In a way, this tended to Frank’s disadvantage, because 
in their eagerness to get the better of Tom, they became 
active forces striving to fasten the guilt upon Frank. 
Insensibly the police authorities drifted into the same 
position. 

This was well illustrated in a conversation as heard 
between a rival of Tom’s and Captain Lawton. 


94 


ON THE RACK. 


“ Do you suppose, Captain, that Bryan has gotten a 
fact that he is holding back and which offsets all the evi- 
dence against Pemberton? ” asked the rival. 

“ Not at all ; Master Tom has had a few successes, 
until he has come to think that opposition to us, is the 
way to continued success,” replied the captain. 

“He has ‘dumped’ us pretty often,” said the rival 
doubtfully. “ I do wish I could ‘ lay him out ’just once.” 

“ He is getting intolerable with the assumption of never 
being wrong,” said another rival. “ There is one phrase 
in his mouth all the time — ‘ I seldom make mistakes.’ ” 

“ I know, but we’ll prove him guilty of one this time.” 

These rivals of Tom would have been far more easy 
than they were if they had known how weak the defense 
.of Frank was, and how much stronger the defense knew 
the case to be against Frank, than the prosecution did — 
could they have looked beneath the jaunty, confident 
exterior of Tom and discovered how apprehensive of the 
result he really was, satisfied as he was that Frank did 
not shoot Clarence. 

Two eminent criminal practitioners had been retained. 
Lowe and Braham stood at the very head of their line, and 
the knowledge that they were retained coming to the ears 
of Phillips, the district attorney, caused that officer to 
say that the defense would be a fight, and no nonsense 
nor child’s play. 

These two eminent practitioners held a long consulta- 
tion, carefully examined the facts, frowned portentously, 
and acknowledged that they had come upon the hardest 
nut in their professional experience. 

This confession did not frighten Tom so much as it did 
the other friends of Frank, for he knew that every suc- 
ceeding case these gentlemen undertook was the most 
difficult in their experience, it being the habit of these 


THE STRENGTH OF WEAKNESS. 


95 


shrewd and worthy gentlemen to increase the value of 
their services in overcoming obstacles, by increasing the 
proportions of the obstacles to be overcome. 

But what pleased Tom well was that after a long inter- 
view with the prisoner, they were impressed with the 
truth of Frank’s statements : 

“ Either Pemberton is the most consummate actor,” 
said Braham to Lowe, “ or he is a very much wronged 
man.” 

“And he is not an actor,” returned Lowe, as he rolled 
and unrolled a strip of paper, as was his wont when 
deeply in thought. 

“ No, he is not an actor,” said Braham. “ He is too 
open and frank. If he had done this deed he would 
have admitted it and brought justification for it.” 

The days went by and the coroner’s verdict was 
rendered. It was a bad blow, much vorse than had been 
anticipated. It expressed the unqualified opinion that 
Fellows had come to his death at the hands of Pember- 
ton. 

Lowe and Braham had striven to have the verdict less 
emphatic and positive — to admit of a possibility of a 
doubt. The influence of the district attorney, however, 
had been too great. After this, few in the city who had 
formed any opinion of the matter doubted Frank’s guilt. 

And when the coroner’s jury was dispersed there were 
just so many more active forces abroad against Frank, 
bent on justifying the opinion expressed. 

Before the coroner’s verdict had been given Clarence 
had been buried. The funeral had been largely attended 
by the business world in which he had moved. The 
officiating clergyman prayed for the miserable soul 
languishing in jail, in punishment of the death he had 
inflicted upon their dead friend, a victim of his own wild 


9 6 


ON THE RACK. 


passions. As a result most of his hearers went away 
firm in their belief that Frank was already convicted, and 
certain that Pemberton was, what they had never seen 
the least sign of, a very improper man. 

Then a few days later the Grand Jury came into ses- 
sion, and Frank was indicted. 

In the mean time not a single point had been made 
on behalf of Frank. A passionate hope possessed the 
breasts of Mrs. Pemberton and Marion. It was a de- 
spairing hope with all the others, except Tom, who, if 
not wholly sanguine was wonderfully active in these 
days. 

It was about this time that Tom, one day, as he was 
coming from a call upon Marion, met the chief of his 
paper. 

“Tom,” said that gentlemen, “I’m afraid you have 
barked up the wrong tree, and that, for once, your in- 
stincts are astray. There seems to be no possible es- 
cape for Pemberton.” 

“ I never was more confident of a man’s innocence,” 
replied Tom. 

“Come into the club with me,” said the chief, “and 
let us talk it over. The Sol is the one paper in the city 
following the policy it does. I don't want the paper 
wrong in this matter.” 

Tom was alarmed. He feared the case would be taken 
from him. Apart from the humiliation to himself of such 
a thing, his ability to help Frank would be seriously 
crippled. When, therefore, he sat down with his chief, 
he concentrated all the powers of his mind upon an 
argument to sustain his faith. Never before had he 
given the editor such an exhibition of the subtilty of his 
reasoning powers, the keenness of his analysis, nor of 
his power of comparison. He rose many degrees in the 


THE STRENGTH OF WEARNESS. 97 

esteem of his chief, but, better than all, he communicated 
something of his own enthusiasm to the editor. 

“ I want to see Pemberton,” said his superior. 

Come, then, with me. I would like you to see him 
and judge for yourself.” 

They went out, took a cab, and were driven to the 
Tombs. 

Tom purposely was not present during the conversa- 
tion between the editor and Frank. It lasted much 
longer" than Tom had supposed it would. But he argued 
favorably for himself as each moment flew by. 

When Frank was returned to his cell and the editor 
rejoined Tom, the latter saw that his chief had been im- 
pressed as all others had been with Frank’s conscious- 
ness of his innocence. 

When they were once outside of the jail the editor 
said : 

“That man is innocent. You’re entirely right. Make 
the fight for him as strong as you can.” 

“ Still, sir,” said Tom, “as confident as we may be, 
this damnable conspiracy of events may hang him — if 
not, imprison him for life.” 

“ I don’t care. The paper can afford to be right even 
if the law does say it is wrong. Go ahead and make 
the fight for his life. I’ll help you in the editorial col- 
umns. Spare no expense. If we save him the triumph 
will be all the greater. If we don’t— well, in time the 
affair will be forgotten.” 

Tom was delighted. Now he was a free man in every 
respect. 

“ All your copy will be ordered ‘ must,’ ” said the great 
editor, as he leaped into the cab and was driven away. 

The next morning Tom’s article began with this sen- 
tence : 


9 8 


ON THE RACK. 


“ Frank Pemberton is an innocent man.” 

The same day the paper, editorially, warned the prose- 
cuting attorney to go slowly and not hasten to a judicial 
murder. 

Captain Lawton, when he read it, bit his mustache, 
and said : 

“ That fellow Bryan has got something that he is go- 
ing to spring upon us.” 

The district attorney laid down his paper and muttered : 

“ I wonder how Lowe and Braham succeeded in get- 
ting hold of the Sol in this way.” 

The authorities consulted. Concluding, with Lawton, 
that there were facts in the case they were not yet in 
possession of, they determined to go slowly and cau- 
tiously. 

Frank’s counsel were filled with joy. They antici- 
pated a veering of public sentiment. 

Young Whitney entertained Tom at dinner, at which 
the elder Whitney was present. The merchant and the 
reporter became friends at once. 

Eleven days had passed since Frank’s arrest. 

During this time he had been confined in the Tombs. 
He had made no complaint, nor any suggestion that ef- 
forts should be made to secure his release. He seemed 
to be content to wait patiently the efforts made in his 
behalf. 

One day Lowe said to Braham : 

“We ought to make an effort to have Pemberton bailed.” 

“ I have been thinking that,” replied Braham. “ But 
I refrained from mentioning it, because I did not believe 
the state of the public mind would justify it.” 

“ But don’t you think there is a change in public sen- 
timent ? ” 

“ A very decided change, and one due to the positive 


THE STRENGTH OE WEAKNESS. 99 

attitude of the Sol. All of the papers are hedging be- 
cause of the extreme course pursued by that paper.” 

“Well, then, suppose we consult Whitney?” 

“We’ll send for him at once.” 

When the young lawyer made his appearance, the 
proposition to secure bail for Frank was submitted. 

“ Will it be accepted ? ” he asked. “ I think there is no 
doubt about obtaining it.” 

“We have concluded public sentiment is ripe for it,” 
said Braham. “ But I don’t think we should attempt it 
without first doing a little plowing with the district at- 
torney. If we can get his consent to it, I think it can 
be accomplished.” 

“ How would you proceed ? ” 

“ Oh, go first informally to the district attorney and 
consult with him. You should go with us.” 

The result of the conference was that they visited 
the district attorney. That official at first was disin- 
clined to entertain the proposition ; it was a most un- 
usual thing to admit a murderer to bail, he thought. 

“One moment, Mr. District Attorney,” said Lowe; 
“ don’t let us convict this man before he is tried. There 
has been enough trial and conviction outside of the court 
already, but when we are through with the court we will 
bring our man off clean-handed. This man is not a 
murderer, and you have no right to conclude he is. That 
is not the part of a public prosecutor.” 

The district attorney felt he had been caught napping, 
and apologized, saying it was a careless use of words, 
and that he meant one charged with murder. 

“Now,” said Braham, “ thm*e are a few facts which, 
taken together, seem to make circumstantial proof against 
Mr. Pemberton — but not a word of direct proof. It is 
all mere supposition. Our client conceals nothing.” 


100 


ON THE RACK. 


“ He refuses to tell of his movements on the night of 
the murder ! ” 

“ One moment again, Mr. District Attorney,” said 
Lowe. “ You have not proved yet that it was mur- 
der.” 

The district attorney looked up in surprise. He 
thought he had caught a glimmering of the defense, and 
that it was to be suicide. 

“ Whatever Mr. Pemberton withholds — whatever course 
he pursues, he does so upon the advice of his counsel,” 
said Mr. Braham. “ Mr. Lowe and myself take the en- 
tire responsibility of that.” 

“ I suppose you will make the motion for bail whether 
I consent or not,” said the district attorney. 

“ Not unless you consent to have the motion made. 
We have no desire to do so. We would prefer to have 
you acquiesce,” said Mr. Braham. 

“Well, if I consent to it at all, it will be only upon the 
consideration that the bail is ample.” 

“ Whatever amount you may fix upon, Mr. District 
Attorney,” said Mr. Whitney. 

“ That there shall be not less than three bondsmen, 
justifying in double the amount of their bonds,” contin- 
ued the district attorney. 

“Very well, sir.” Young Whitney was not quite so 
confident now. He had counted upon two only. 

“ And,” went on the district attorney, “ they must be 
men concerning whose standing there is not the slight- 
est doubt. I do not say I will consent, but these are the 
only conditions upon which I will.” 

The three went out. As they walked down the stairs, 
Mr. Lowe said : 

“ He will consent ; but his purpose is to demand such 
heavy bail as to render it practically impossible.” 


THE STRENGTH OF WEAKNESS . ioi 

“ The amount does not bother me half so much as the 
third bondsman,” said young Whitney. 

They stood upon the pavement to consult. 

“ W T e want the very best of men,” said Braham. 
“ Would your father stand as one ?” 

“ Not the slightest doubt of it — up to a quarter of a 
million.” 

“ Who is your second man ? ” 

“ Mr. Standish.” 

“Ah, the father of the young lady. A very strong 
name.” 

“ Now,” said Mr. Lowe, “ if we could get for a third, 
another partner, we would be all right. Why can’t you 
or your father persuade Mr. Evans. The moral effect 
would be very great in this particular case.” 

“ I fear Mr. Evans is committed to the belief that Mr. 
Pemberton is guilty.” 

“Well, try it on,” said Lowe. “It is too strong a 
point to be lost without an effort.” 

Whitney promised to do what he could. And in pur- 
suance of the promise went to his father at once. 

The elder Whitney promised so far as his own name 
went, without limitation ; he also undertook to see Mr. 
Evans and propose the matter. With Colonel Standish 
the son succeeded equally well. 

Returning to inform the elder Whitney of his success, 
he found his father quite indignant over the flat refusal 
of Mr. Evans to have anything to do with the matter. 
He, however, promised his son that he would find a 
third bondsman. 

As the younger Whitney left his father’s office and 
walked toward Broadway, he met Tom Bryan and told 
him what had been done. 

Tom’s eyes sparkled. He had hoped for this, but 


162 


OAr THE RAC ft. 


hardly deemed it possible. He pondered a moment 
over the story of Mr. Evans’s refusal. 

“What reason does Mr. Evans give for refusing ? ” 

“ He committed himself to the belief of Pemberton’s 
guilt in the beginning, and being tenacious of his 
opinions does not like to yield,” answered Whitney. 
“ Besides he has also gotten it into his head that Pem- 
berton was following evil courses secretly, and that Fel- 
lows, finding it out, suffered for it. But,” continued 
Whitney, “ it is, after all, of little moment. Father has 
promised to secure the third man.” 

“Pardon me,” said Tom; “it seems to me to be of 
great moment. Lowe was right. It is a great point. 
See ! Both Pemberton and Fellows were highly re- 
spected by the firm of Evans, Whitney & Co. One is 
killed, and, as it is alleged, by the other. Suppose 
now, that both Evans and Whitney appear on the bail 
bond of Pemberton ; it will have a great effect upon the 
public. Let me suggest a way. Let me bring Miss 
Standish to plead with Mr. Evans.” 

“ Do you think she could have any more influence 
upon Mr. Evans than his partner of thirty years?” 
asked young Whitney, somewhat indignantly. 

“ There is no eloquence equal to youth, beauty, tearful 
eyes, and the deep love* of a heart distressed,” replied 
Tom enthusiastically. “Come back to your father and 
I will guarantee he will agree with me.” 

Rather relunctantly young Whitney did as Tom re- 
quested. 

When the elder Whitney understood the proposition, 
he was as enthusiastic as Tom over it. 

“ Go and bring her quick. Evans is an old fool. He 
can’t say no to a woman. He will melt before Miss 


THE STRENGTH OF WEAKNESS. 103 

Standish as the dew does before the summer sun. 
Bryan, you are a man of ready wit and resource.” 

Thus commissioned, Tom obtained a cab and drove 
rapidly to Marion’s residence. He had but to intimate 
that she could perform service for Frank and she was 
ready. 

As they drove back Tom informed her. 

“ Now, Miss Standish,” he said, as they turned into 
White Street, “be courageous. Don’t resent a few hard 
words, and don’t let a few bluff ones discourage you. 
Stick to him and you will win. I will remain in the 
carriage to await you.” 

As they drove up, Marion alighted alone, entered .the 
store and inquired for Mr. Evans. She was taken into 
the old gentleman’s office, who, as she entered, recog- 
nized a lady, and rising, greeted her with polite courtesy. 

She threw back her veil and showed the old man a 
beautiful face, chastened by sorrow and subdued by 
grief. There was appeal in her eyes that went straight 
to the old man’s heart. 

“ I am Marion Standish,” she said simply. 

Mr. Evans bowed, not recognizing the name, and 
politely offered her a chair. As she took it she said : 

“I am the promised bride of Frank Pemberton.” 

This was no time in her mind for false delicacy, and 
Mr. Evans, taken aback by the simple announcement, 
coughed slightly to conceal his astonishment. She 
waited for a reply, so the old gentleman said : 

“Urn! urn! I’m very sorry for you, my dear young 
lady.” 

“ Do not be sorry for me, sir, but for him, who is so 
unfortunate and languishes in jail, when he is innocent.” 

“ Oh, the sublime faith of women,” muttered Mr. 
Evans. 


104 


ON THE RACK , . 


“ It is proposed to make an effort to release him on bail, 
and I am come to ask you to be one of the bondsmen." 

The old gentleman was on his guard again. 

“ That has been asked of me before to-day, but I have 
refused.” 

“ May I ask why ? You were his friend once. He 
has often told me so, and how dearly he loved and re- 
spected you." 

This was attacking the old man from a side where he 
expected none. 

“ I had the very highest opinion of him once," he said 
warily. 

“ And what has occurred to change your opinion ? 
Because he has been unfortunate? Because he has been 
unjustly — wickedly charged with a crime he did not 
commit ? ” 

“ Oh, hang it, my dear girl,” the old gentleman cried, 
“ you should not impute such unworthy reasons to 
me." 

“ When a man is in trouble, then it is that his friends 
should rally at his back! " 

“ But suppose he is guilty." 

“ It is easy to be a friend when the friend is right. It 
is when he is wrong that the true test of friendship is 
made. But Frank is not wrong. He is innocent." 

“You distress me greatly," said the old gentleman, 
shifting about in his seat. “ The circumstances all point 
strongly against your lover. I cannot forget that Mr. 
Fellows was our friend, too — that he is dead." 

“ But not by the hand of Frank." 

“ The authorities do not agree with you," he said 
brusquely, and then, as if ashamed of his remark, went 
on hastily. “You must let me judge for myself. I can 
sympathize with you and can admire your devotion — it 


THE STRENGTH OF WEAKNESS. 105 

is very noble of you. You had no interest in Fellows, 
as we had here — you never came in contact with him.” 

“ Indeed I did, and not in a way to increase my 
esteem of him.” 

• This rather nettled the old man, who went back to the 
time when he interfered in the quarrel between Frank 
and Clarence. 

“ You should not say such things,” he said gently. 
“ Fellows was unfortunate in not gaining your love, but 
he should not have been punished for that as he has been.” 

Marion resented the tone of Mr. Evans, and with a 
sudden accession of dignity, she replied : 

“ Mr. Fellows made no offers of love to me that I was 
aware of. I certainly never understood them as such. 
Had he made the first indication in that direction I 
should have repelled it. I never could have considered 
him in that light. Women’s eyes are keener than men 
in such things. And though he is dead, I must say I saw 
he was unworthy the love of any girl.” 

Now it was that the old man grew angry. 

“ You are mistaken,” he replied with a great deal of 
asperity. “ His life was upright, straightforward ; and 
there is no evidence that he lived a double life — one for 
the world to look at and the other in which he secretly 
sought his pleasures. It was because he discovered 
Pemberton in this that he incurred Frank’s fatal anger.” 

“What do you mean by that ?” cried Marion, her eyes 
flashing fire. 

“ I mean that on the night that he- met his death he 
found Pemberton in an unsavory neighborhood, and that 
when the altercation between them took place on Sixth 
Avenue, brought about, doubtless, by Fellows’s remon- 
strances, a woman waited for Pemberton in a coach on 
the corner.” 


io6 


ON THE RACK . 


The hot blood rushed into Marion’s face. She leaned 
forward with intense earnestness as she asked : 

“ Do you know who the woman was ?” 

Mr. Evans misapprehended her, and, his attention 
caught by her extreme manner, he began to feel ashamed 
of his words. 

“ No, my poor girl, I do not,” he said. “ I should not 
have told yohof this — it was cruel of me to increase your 
grief. I was betrayed into it. No one knows who she 
was.” 

“ Yes, some one does,” said Marion eagerly. “ Several 
do. My father does. It was I.” 

“You ! ” The old gentleman was confounded. 

“ Do you know why I was there ? I will tell you. I 
did not intend to do it, or to tell any one. But I shall 
now after what you have said.” 

Then with burning words and hot indignation she 
revealed the base trick and its purpose to Mr. Evans. 
The old gentleman was overwhelmed, nay, stunned. It 
worked a revolution. 

“ Do you not believe this story ? There is no difficulty 
in proving it — every word — by disinterested witnesses. 
Mr. Pemberton’s rage was no common one — it was a 
noble rage, such as a noble man feels when so great a 
wrong is done those whom he loves and cherishes.” 

She waited for an answer. But Mr. Evans was too 
much overcome to reply. So she went on. 

“Oh, sir, I know it is the goodness of your heart which 
leads you to try to think well of the dead. But do not 
do so to the disadvantage of the living — to the sad, un- 
fortunate, living, suffering under an unjust accusation. 
The network of circumstances has been woven about 
him and he wants to be free to disentangle it. I came 
to you, believing you still had in your heart that warmth 


A RIFT IN THE CLOUDS . 


107 


for him that he had always told me was there. Believing 
you would not deny him the small boon of helping him 
to show his innocence — how white are his hands — to that 
world, which, until now, has never thought anything of 
him but what was good. It is such a small thing to do. 
Only to afford him the opportunity to show that he is not 
guilty— to throw the mantle of friendship and support 
and sympathy and encouragement about him. Such a 
little thing to do. And I did not believe when I pleaded 
with you that I would be denied.” 

“ Nor will you. Hang it, d it. You shan’t be,” 

ejaculated Mr. Evans, very much overwrought and un- 
able to withstand the appeal of her tearful, imploring 
eyes and clasped hands. “ Go away, young lady ! Go 
home! It shall be as you wish ! I’ll do it ! I’ll go now! 
I’ll go anywhere ! I will go on his bond ! You go home! 
It will be all right ! ” 

In his agitation he had urged her out of the door, 
without permitting her to offer a word of thanks to him. 

The next moment he was in Mr. Whitney’s room. 

“ Did you send that young woman to me ? ” he asked. 

“ No ; I heard she was coming, though.” 

“ Well, I’m going on Pemberton’s bond. I’ve made a 
mistake.” 


CHAPTER XIII. 

A RIFT IN THE CLOUDS. 

M ARION’S success with Mr. Evans was quickly fol- 
lowed up by a notice served upon' the district attor- 
ney of a motion to admit Pemberton to bail. 

In a day or two after this the lawyers appeared in 
court. Mr. Lowe made the motion. 


io8 


ON THE RACK. 


The judge evidently was somewhat astonished. 

“ Is not such a motion unusual where the prisoner is 
charged with so great a crime ? ” he asked. 

“ Your honor is quite right,” said the district attorney. 
“Since I have held my office, but one such motion has 
been made, and that in a case similar— that is to say, in 
a case in which there was no direct proof.” 

Mr. Lowe whispered to Mr. Whitney that the district 
attorney evidently did not intend to make a strong op- 
position to the motion. 

“ What reasons have counsel for the defense to give 
for the granting of the motion ? ” asked the judge. 

“ May your Honor please,” said Mr. Braham, rising. 
“We submit that there is no proof existing at present — 
none at least made known to us, that the prisoner is guilty 
of the crime charged against him. Certain circumstances 
are alleged as going to that proof. They are at the 
best, however, but suspicions. We go further even, and 
insist that, though the coroner has held his inquest, and 
his jury has rendered a verdict, still there is no proof 
that the man Fellows was murdered. He is dead ; but it 
is not established that he did not die by his own hand. 
Upon the contrary, our position is that of a complete 
denial of the charges. We do not set up a quarrel, a 
provocation, or an attack rendering violence necessary 
in self-defense. We stand upon the simple ground that 
our client did not do the deed. This man has been 
tried in the newspapers, with the single exception of one 
— has been tried, and upon the insufficient evidence con- 
victed, and I believe, if it had not been for the mantle of 
protection the law and courts have thrown about him, 
would have hanged him. Yet we affirm that he is in no 
way guilty. And with due deference to the learned dis- 
trict attorney, we say that no evidence is in his hands 


A RIFT IN THE CLOUDS. 109 

which does not admit of a possibility of a doubt. I am 
quite sure I should not be here pressing this motion were 
it a case where there was direct proof. The prisoner is 
a young man whose previous life precludes the idea of 
guilt. A most rigid investigation into that life shows him 
temperate in his habits, industrious in his business, de- 
voted to his domestic duties, upright in his relations to 
men, moderate in his pleasures, of kindly nature and 
equable temper. All these go to the doubt which must 
rest upon the evidence which has as yet been presented 
against him. Again, he is a man engaged in large busi- 
ness affairs. From these he has been torn without a 
moment’s warning and they are suffering. His interests 
here are so strong and deep, that circumstances conspire 
to keep him here, and I believe that he could be released 
upon his own recognizance, with the surety of his appear- 
ance at trial. I know he is only too anxious to have that 
trial occur in order that he may be cleared from the 
charge under which he now rests. In view of these cir- 
cumstances, it seems to us unjust that he should be kept 
in confinement pending the time of the trial, which in 
our opinion can but be at best an inquiry into whether the 
suspicions now entertained are correct or not.” 

The district attorney replied : 

“ Much that my learned friend says I can agree with, 
especially that which relates to the previous reputable 
life of the prisoner and of his connection with large busi- 
ness affairs. I cannot follow him in, however, and do 
not admit what he says relative to the proof held against 
the prisoner. But this is neither the time nor the place 
to discuss the proof in the case. I do desire, however, 
to present to your Honor’s consideration the fact that the 
prisoner comes from wealthy commercial associations — 
that he is in alliance with men to whom sums which are 


I IO 


ON THE RACK. 


large to many of us are small to them. It is quite among 
the possibilities that these people, deeply interested in 
the prisoner, might be willing to see him forfeit every- 
thing and fly from justice. Now, your Honor, while I 
am not disposed to offer strenuous objection to the 
motion, I do urge that, in view of the circumstances I 
have pointed out, the sum fixed, if the motion be granted, 
should be so large as to overcome that objection — that 
the bondsmen should be at least three — and that they 
should be of a sufficiently high character to preclude the 
idea of collusion and conspiracy in flight.” 

“ What amount do you think should be the sum ? ” 

“ Not less than $100,000.” 

Both Lowe and Braham leaped to their feet in objec- 
tion. But young Whitney whispered to them to make 
no objection to the sum. 

“ I am advised by the next friend of the prisoner,” 
said Mr. Lowe, “ to offer no objection to this unheard- 
of sum.” 

The district attorney looked disappointed. He was 
not prepared for so prompt an acquiescence. And he 
began to feel that he had not placed the amount high 
enough. 

“ We stand ready with three bondsmen,” continued 
Mr. Lowe. “ These are Mr. Edmund Standish, who 
will be recognized as one of the most prominent of our 
shipping merchants, Mr. James Evans, and Mr. Robert 
Whitney, immediately recognized as of our merchant 
princes. Stronger in character and repute cannot be 
obtained in this great city, or in wealth. And I desire 
further to point out that Mr. Evans and Mr. Whitney 
are partners of the prisoner, as they were of the dead 
man, having the same interest in each.” 

With his usual adroitness, Mr. Lowe had gotten the 


A RIFT TV THE CLOUDS. 


Ill 


great point in. The district attorney smiled and admired 
the shrewdness. 

“There can be no doubt as to the character and com- 
petency of the bondsmen,” he remarked. 

“The motion is granted,” said the judge. “The 
district attorney will attend to the details of the giving 
of the bonds.” 

“ Will your Honor make the order for the appearance 
of the prisoper at my office ? ” 

“ The order is made,” said the judge, and turned to 
the next business at hand. 

Tom Bryan had been an interested witness of the pro- 
ceedings. The moment the judge granted the motion, he 
tore out of the chamber, flew to the Tombs, and informed 
Frank of this favorable turn in his fortunes. Then with- 
out delay leaped into a cab and was driven hastily to 
Frank’s mother, to whom he told the good news, and as 
hastily to Marion. 

When he could return to the district attorney’s office 
the formalities had been gone through with and the 
party was descending the stairs, all in high spirits and 
jubilant — with Frank free again to walk the streets. 

It was luncheon hour and all went to a neighboring 
restaurant, where, to the astonishment of Mr. Whitney, 
Mr. Evans seemed to be the most jubilant of all. 

“ You must come down to the office to-morrow morn- 
ing, Frank, and take up your duties,” said Mr. Evans. 
“It will be hard, of course, but the effect will be bene- 
ficial.” 

“ He has got something else to do,” said Tom. 

“ Well, he needn’t be confined to them,” said Mr. 
Evans, “ the moral effect is what I am after.” 

“ It seems to me,” said Tom, “ that what is wanted 
is to get some confirmation of Pemberton’s story, that 


I 12 


ON THE RACK . 


after he left Miss Standish on New Year’s Eve, he 
walked far up town and down again, and the route he 
took. That is the weak spot of the defense. Now I 
propose that we put in a standing advertisement in all 
the papers, for information from all people who were on 
any part of that route between the hours of eleven and 
one. Something may come of it.” 

“ That’s a good idea, Tom,” said Lowe — “ a devilish 
shrewd one. I’ll attend to that this very day.” 

“ But you won’t advertise for some one noticing Pem- 
berton at that time,” said Braham, “ for that would only 
expose our weakness to the prosecution.” 

“ No,” replied Lowe, “ simply asking any one on the 
streets between those hours to communicate with us.” 

“ That will do,” said Braham, “ only select some friend 
of yours as the address to apply to.” 

As they were leaving the restaurant, Tom said to 
Frank : 

“ I want to have a talk with you this evening — such 
kind of a talk as I haven’t been able to have with you as 
yet.” 

“ Very well, then,” returned Frank, “ come to my 
house ; I shall be home.” 

“ No, you won’t,” said Colonel Standish. ‘‘You will 
be at my house. I mean to have some friends there. 
You may as well make the plunge at once, Frank. If 
we’re going to stand by you, we might as well do it in a 
way that will tell and have some effect. Besides, Marion 
will want to see you. Bring your mother with you. 
Bryan, you come too, if you want to talk with Pember- 
ton.” 

Frank was greatly moved by this unexpected demon- 
stration of Colonel Standish. He was a man austere in 
temper and cold in manner. And what he had said, he 


A RIFT IN THE CLOUDS. 


113 

had said most brusquely. But, under his manner, Frank 
could appreciate a determination to be his friend, and 
he knew that the friendship of Colonel Standish was no 
idle thing. Before they separated, the colonel had re- 
ceived the promise from Mr. Evans and the elder and 
younger Whitney that they would be present. 

Frank now hurried to his house, where to his delight 
he found Marion awaiting his coming. And there, with 
the two women wno loved him best, let us leave him for 
a while. 

On going to his office to write his daily article on the 
affair, Tom found the private detective he had employed, 
awaiting him. 

“ I am ready to make my report, Mr. Bryan,” he said. 

“ Out with it then, my man.” 

“ I don’t know but that you will be disappointed,” 
said the detective. “ For there isn’t much. I can’t find 
that Mr. Fellows had any intimate friend after he broke 
with Mr. Pemberton. He had acquaintances with whom 
he associated a little. But his life was a very quiet one. 
He spent most of his evenings in his own rooms. Some- 
times he would go to the theater, but not often, and 
when it was out he would go straight home. I can’t find 
that his life was irregular in any particular. I can’t find 
that he had any house at which he called. Nor did he 
mix socially with people in his boarding-house. There 
is an old gentleman there named Thomas who used to go 
into his room occasionally and smoke and chat with him. 
That’s all. There is just this one point. About the 
middle of December a man who was very shabby and 
disreputable in appearance, inquired for him at the door, 
and would neither come in nor go to Mr. Fellows’s 
room. Mr. Fellows came down and had a very long talk 
with him on the stoop in the dark. Afterward Mr. Fel- 


H4 


ON THE RACK. 


lows went to his room, got his hat and coat and went 
out with him, returning about midnight. Two or three 
days later, quite late at night, a man came in the same 
way, and the servant thinks it was the same man. He 
was very drunk and, as before, Mr. Fellows came down 
and this time talked very angrily with him. And, as be- 
fore, Mr. Fellows went off with him. This Mr. Thomas 
says that one night, a night or two after Christmas, when 
he was in Mr. Fellows’s rooms, there came a rap at the 
door, and Fellows answering, he saw the figure of a man 
standing there, but could not distinguish the face. Mr. 
Fellows, on opening the door, exclaimed in a displeased 
tone : 

“ ‘ You here — again ? ’ 

“ The man muttered something and Mr. Fellows 
closed the door, went into his bed-room, closing that 
door after him, and he then heard him unlock the door 
of his bed-room leading into the hall, and admit the 
man. Finally, as the talk grew louder and evidently 
somewhat angry, he left. As he was mounting the 
stairs, he saw the door open and the man, followed by 
Fellows, come out. At the head of the stairs leading to 
the hall below, Fellows said : 

“ ‘ You must do what you promise me, or I will throw 
you over entirely.’ 

“ And the man went downstairs without reply. The 
servants have no recollection of having admitted this 
man. It is a large boarding-house — almost large enough 
for a hotel — and many strangers are going in and out. 
There is one more point. On New Year’s Eve, Mr. 
Fellows came in at nearly midnight, evidently trying to 
escape observation, for his clothes were dirty and he 
looked as if he had had a bad fall in the slush. He 
was seen by a boarder — a Mrs. Maynard — whose door 


A GREAT BLUNDER. 


IJ 5 

was slightly open as he passed. He went in and changed 
his clothes hurriedly — a servant, passing the door, saw 
him doing it, for it was partly open. He went out again 
immediately and never came back.” 

Tom had listened intensely. “ The main point in 
your story,” he said, “ is this mysterious visitor. Follow 
that up and see if you can get any more light upon him. 
This is more than I expected.” 

The detective went away and Tom pondered over his 
story. He reached the conclusion that the mysterious 
man must have been employed by Clarence in connection 
with the intrigue he plotted against Marion and Frank. 

“ It is the first bit of encouragement,” he said, as he 
turned to his work, “ that has come from faithful 
endeavor. There is just one point in this affair which, 
if we could accomplish, would settle the whole affair — 
and that is confirmation of Pemberton's story as to the 
route he took after He left the Standish girl on that 
night. We can account for every moment of time ex- 
cept that. That is the point upon which to concentrate 
labor. All else, as it appears now, is a waste of energy 
and time.” 

He finished his article and went to his rooms to pre- 
pare for an evening at the house of Mr. Standish. 


CHAPTER XIV. 

A GREAT BLUNDER. 

'T'HERE was more or less criticism of the bailing of 
I Frank — especially from those who had settled to the 
conviction that he was guilty of the murder. Yet such 
a volatile thing is public opinion, that, on the discovery 


n6 


ON THE RACK. 


of what was supposed would be the defense of Frank, as 
made in the application for bail, there were those who 
began to argue on the side of Frank, and for that reason 
only. 

Mr. Evans was right in saying there would be a moral 
effect produced in having Frank again at his duties. 
The old gentleman had been horrified by the revelation 
made by Marion of Clarence’s moral turpitude, as evinced 
in his endeavor to lure her into the interior of a house 
of ill fame. He had daughters of his own, and he 
brought himself at once to consider what he would have 
done had such an outrage been practiced on one of 
them. 

He was, perhaps, not logical in his complete somer- 
sault. From having a profound sympathy for Clarence 
and believing Frank guilty, he had come to have an 
utter detestation for Clarence and a pronounced belief 
in Frank’s innocence. Under the fact that Mr. Evans 
had changed his opinion, and that he and Mr. Whitney 
had put themselves under such enormous bonds, the 
opinion of the vast establishment changed also. No 
doubt that Frank’s release had a great deal to do with it. 
He was no longer in jail ; he was free, moving about 
among them, pursuing his duties with the air of a man 
who proposed to do so for years to come. People do not 
reason on such things — they feel them, without being 
fairly conscious of them. At all events, every one be- 
came an active force within his circle, whether the same 
was large or small, influential or the contrary. And 
with the growth of a sentiment in favor of Frank, the 
prejudice against him became less potent. 

Frank’s demeanor contributed largely to this end. He 
had immersed himself in the affairs of the establishment, 
more as a means to escape from his own thoughts upon 


A GREAT BLUNDER. 


lT 7 

his situation than from any real desire to employ him- 
self. He did not obtrude upon the attention of any one ; 
yet if duty demanded it, he met those who had business 
with him, talked modestly, and, if his own grave affair 
was mentioned, spoke of it calmly, with dignity and sadly. 

In the mean time, the counsel of Frank were at their 
wits’ end to construct a defense. The whole case re- 
solved itself into a single question. How can Pember- 
ton’s story of the manner in which he spent the hours 
between n p.m. and r a.m. on the night of the murder 
be confirmed ? To this no answer could be made. 
Frank had endeavored to call to memory every incident 
of that walk. But he was compelled to admit that there 
was block after block, the passage over which he was 
unconscious of, so great was his agitation and so deeply 
engrossed in thought was he. The hour was late, there 
were few on the street at that time, and fewer as the 
hour grew later. He could recollect very few incidents 
connected with his wanderings. He recollected that 
when he realized that he had walked a long distance up 
town and turned to go back, that he saw a carriage at 
the corner, the driver standing upon the pavement, and 
that for a brief moment he had considered the advisa- 
bility of taking it ; indeed he had advanced a step or 
two toward the driver, who had asked him if he wanted 
a carriage, but determining that exercise would do more 
to steady him than anything else, he had shook his head 
and walked on. He remembered also, that as he was 
passing Delmonico’s, a rather large party issued from 
the Fifth Avenue door, and that they impeded his prog- 
ress an instant or two. Further, that as he passed 
under the great branch light, near Twenty-third Street, 
opposite the Fifth Avenue Hotel, two hackmen were 
quarreling over the fact that their hacks had come into 


1 1 8 


ON THE RACK. 


contact. These were all the incidents of the walk he 
could recall. 

Assuming that any part of his story being proven true, 
credence would be given to the whole of it, Tom had di- 
rected the detective in his employ to search for the cab- 
man near Central Park, the people issuing from Del- 
monico’s, and the two quarreling hackmen at Twenty- 
third Street. But ill success attended his efforts. He 
could learn nothing. 

The counsel, Lowe and Braham, listened to this story of 
failure with ill-concealed disgust. 

“ Well, Lowe,” said Braham, “ I am afraid after all that 
we will have to stand upon the theory we concocted 
solely for the purpose of the motion for bail. We will 
have to set up that there is no proof that Fellows was 
not killed by himself, that the allegation that he was 
shot by another person is a mere assumption, and then 
to discredit the circumstantial evidence as much as we 
can. The prospects are not bright.” 

“ No, they are not bright,” said Lowe gloomily. “We 
will have to rely upon the impression we can make in 
our arguments on the jury. And we will have to go to 
the jury with Pemberton refusing to tell what brought 
him into Twenty-seventh Street, and what was the im- 
mediate cause of his altercation with Fellows on Sixth 
Avenue, with all its damaging consequences. The very 
motive the district attorney is searching for would be 
found in that very thing.” 

“ We could save his neck if we were to present it,” 
returned Braham, “but he would have to serve his time, 
perhaps for life in the State prison.” 

“Give that idea up,” said Tom Bryan, who was pres- 
ent, “ Pemberton asserts he did not kill Fellows. And 
he says that if that cannot be established he will willingly 


A GREAT BLUNDER. 119 

die. He will not accept anything less than an honorable 
acquittal.” 

“Well,” replied Braham, “I take it he is high-strung 
enough for it at present. But when he faces the noose 
and the hangman, he will alter his tune.” 

“I don’t believe it,” replied Tom. 

“ Nor I, either,” confirmed Lowe. “ He is one of 
those nervy fellows who will endure anything.” 

“ If public sentiment keeps on growing in our favor,” 
said Braham, “ we may pull him through. But if we do 
it, it will be with a kind of Scotch verdict, ‘ Not guilty, 
because not proven guilty.’ ” 

“ Such a verdict will be very unsatisfactory to him,” 
said Tom. 

“ He won’t reject it, all the same,” laughed Braham. 

“ Perhaps not. But it will ruin his life for him.” 
answered Tom. “See here. We have devoted all our 
energies for the past week or two to an endeavor to con- 
firm Pemberton’s story. It seems to me one point has 
been overlooked which might bring forth the same thing.” 

“ What is that ?” asked Lowe. 

“It comes out of the suggestion of Braham that you 
may have to set up the theory that there is no proof that 
Fellows was killed by another person. Now it is assumed 
that Fellows was killed between twelve and one. Why 
not try and find some one or more people who were in 
the neighborhood of Twentieth Street about that time? 
Effort might bring something out.” 

“A slight chance, Tom,” replied Lowe. “Yet in a 
desperate case like this, nothing should be left undone. 
I’ll put detectives on the business at once. I will go and 
look over the ground and the neighborhood myself this 
afternoon. Something may suggest itself.” 

“ Hang it,” said Tom irritably, after a few moment’s 


120 


ON THE EACH. 


silence. “ There isn’t a thing in Fellows’s life that gives 
us a peg to hang our hats on. The only person he 
seems to have had a difference with was Pemberton. 
And his life was as straight and upright as a Presbyterian 
deacon. He hadn’t a single palliating or humanizing 
vice, so far as can be ascertained by the most rigid ex- 
amination. The only mysterious thing about him is 
that shabby and mysterious person who called upon him. 
You know I have a theory that this fellow was the man 
who Pemberton thought he was going to serve, when he 
left that dinner — Steadman — the one who wrote him the 
letter, you know. Well, I’ve made a search for him. And 
I can’t find him. Three months ago, his wife left him — 
went home with her child to her father’s. He disap- 
peared shortly after from all his haunt’s, and no one 
can give me the slightest information concerning him.” 

“ Does Pemberton insist that the letter received by 
him was in Steadman’s handwriting ? ” asked Braham. 

“ He is positive as to that. He has the letter still.” 

“ Do you think you have made the best search that 
could be made for him ? ” again asked Braham. 

“ I do,” replied Tom. “ But I should be glad to 
have you direct another search. I will give you all my 
notes upon it.” 

“ He might prove to be a valuable witness under cer- 
tain contingencies,” mused Braham. 

“ I don’t know whether I told you,” said Tom, “ that 
I went to that house, into the interior of which Fellows 
tried to get Miss Standish. I questioned the proprietress, 
and she said that on the night previous to the affair a 
man called upon her and asked if she would receive into 
her parlor a young woman who would call about a 
quarter to nine o’clock on the succeeding evening to 
meet a man, who would call a few minutes later. At 






A GREAT BLUNDER . 


121 


first she was disinclined to agree, in view of the oc- 
currence of a few nights previous. But on his repre- 
senting that the woman would be one of the sisterhood, 
and his giving her a sum of money, she agreed. I got 
her to describe the man. Her description did not sug- 
gest Fellows in any way, but it tallies with Pemberton’s 
description of Steadman.” 

“ After all, the testimony would only go to the mitiga- 
tion of the offense Pemberton is charged with,” said 
Braham, “and Pemberton will not permit that line of 
defense.” 

“ True.” Tom was silent again. All were busy with 
their thoughts, when Tom suddenly broke out again: 
“ See here, if you think the revelation of that cause of 
the quarrel on Sixth Avenue must be concealed, don’t 
you think we are remiss in not taking care of that 
driver who took Miss Standish to Twenty-seventh 
Street and afterward drove her and Pemberton away 
again ? ” 

“ By George ! ” said Lowe, leaping to his feet. “ That 
is an awful blunder. It may be too late now. Do you 
know who the man is, Tom ? ” 

“ No, but J can soon find out.” 

“ Then do it at once,” urged Lowe. “ We must get 
the man out of the way somehow. Of course, if Lawton 
has found him out, he’ll soon get at the reason of that 
quarrel.” 

Thus urged, Tom hurried away. He had asked 
Frank, but the latter did not know. He had been en- 
gaged by Marion. To Miss Standish, therefore, he 
went. Marion was about going out when Tom reached 
her, and alarmed by his questions and reasons for 
them, she went at once to the livery stable where she 
had engaged the coach. It was one frequently patron- 


122 


ON THE RACK. 


ized by the Standish family. The proprietor was quite 
willing to oblige Marion by making a search to de- 
termine which driver it was. Finding who it was, and 
that the man was in the stable, the driver was summoned. 

“Do you recollect driving me to Twenty-seventh 
Street on New Year’s Eve?” asked Marion. 

“Indeed I do, ma’am,” replied the driver. “My mind 
has been put on it, only this afternoon.” 

“How?” asked Tom, almost faint with apprehension. 

“A fellow this noon as I was coming from my dinner 
asked me the same question. And when I said I did, 
asked me where I drove her to, and vfhere we picked up 
the gentleman.” 

“ Did you tell him ? ” 

“I did.” Then seeing the effect of his answer upon 
the faces of Marion and Tom, he added anxiously, “I 
hope I did no harm.” 

“I’m afraid you have,” said Tom. “But tell me all 
that occurred.” 

“ Well, sir, he was free with his questions. He wanted 
to know everything. But all I told him was that the 
lady drove down the street till she saw the gentleman on 
the sidewalk, when she got out and they talked a while, 
and then they got in and drove up the street again ; that 
when we was getting near Sixth Avenue the gentleman 
stopped and got out and ran around the corner, and we 
waiting on the corner till he came back, when he got 
in and we drove straight to the lady’s house.” 

“ Did you hear the talk between this lady and the gen- 
tleman on the pavement in Twenty-seventh Street ? ” 

“ Part of it, sir.” 

“ Was there an officer there ? ” 

“ Yes, sir.” 

“ Did this man to-day ask you what was said then ? ” 


A GREAT BLUNDER. 


123 


“He did, but I didn’t tell him, for he was asking too 
many questions.” 

“ Did he ask about the officer ? ” 

“ No, sir.” 

“ Was that all that you told him ? ” 

“ Every word of it.” 

“ One of Captain Lawton’s men,” muttered Tom. 

Marion and Tom went out. As they did so, Marion 
asked if it was very serious. 

“ Very,” replied Tom moodily. “If the whole thing 
isn’t out now, it will be before night.” 

“ But this man didn’t learn what was the cause of our 
going there, and I won’t tell, no matter how hard they 
try to make me.” 

“ It is useless, Miss Standish,” said Tom. “They have 
learned the number of the house from this man. It is 
inconceivable that they won’t recollect that an officer 
was stationed there that night. They will learn from 
him all about it. The district attorney will soon have 
the motive he has been searching for.” 

Marion returned home, saddened and discouraged. 
She was not concerned for herself. She feared the effect 
of it upon Frank’s fortunes. 

Tom had parted with her on the corner nearest her 
house and had gone into Broadway. As he walked along, 
he muttered — “An awful blunder — an awful blunder. 
We are doomed to defeat. Everything seems against 
us.” 

As he turned the corner into Broadway, he encoun- 
tered one of the staff of his paper. He had an inspira- 
tion. Accosting his friend, he said : 

“ Beales, do you want to do me a favor ? ” 

“ Anything, my boy.” 

Tom thought a moment and rapidly determined from 


124 


ON THE RACK. 


which precinct the officer stationed in Twenty-seventh 
Street had been detailed. Then said : 

“Do you recollect that shooting of an inmate that oc- 
curred in December, at No — Twenty-seventh Street?” 

“ Very well. I wrote up the affair.” 

“ Good. The very thing. Do you know that a police- 
man was stationed at the house afterward for a while to 
warn people as to the character of the house ? ” 

“ Yes — for a month.” 

“ How are you at the Precinct ? ” 

“ On the best of terms, if that is what you mean ? ” 

“ Do you think you could get me the name of the offi- 
cer detailed there from six in the evening to midnight on 
New Year’s Eve, without exciting too much suspicion ?” 

“ I have no doubt of it. What’s it all about ? ” 

“ It touches a case I’m working on. Don’t ask me too 
much now. I can’t go there without causing questions. 
Will you go about it right away ? ” 

“ Certainly, if you wish it.” 

“Well, do. I will wait for you at the Gilsey House.” 

The reporter was gone but a short time. As he re- 
turned, he said : 

“ I made one of my lucky hits. I met Turner on duty 
and asked him casually if he had been detailed for that 
duty during that month, and he said ‘yes, several nights.’ 
Then it cropped out that he was the very man you want 
to know.” 

“The deuce!” cried Tom. “Where is the man 
now ? ” 

“You’ll find him on his beat. If you hurry around 
into Sixth Avenue, you’ll catch him. I’ll go with you to 
point him out.” 

“ Qome along, then. Lawton’s men haven’t got to him 
yet and won’t have stopped his mouth.” 


A GREAT BLUNDER. 


I2 5 


“ I say, Tom,” said Beales. “ This man will do any- 
thing* in reason for me. He had a charge preferred 
against him, and as I knew it was dead wrong, without 
his asking me I went before the commissioners and testi- 
fied for him and cleared him. If you want anything from 
him, he’ll do what he can, if I ask him.” 

“ Do it, then. What kind of a fellow is he ? Straight 
or crooked ? ” 

“Straight as a ramrod.” 

They hurried off and found the officer on Sixth Avenue, 
as Beales had predicted. When they came up, Beales 
said : 

“ Turner, my friend here, Mr. Bryan, who is on the 
Sol, wants to ask you a question or two. Whatever he 
wants is right. If you oblige him, you oblige me.” 

He went off, leaving Tom with the officer. 

Tom soon learned that Beales had made no mistake, 
and that the officer had a very clear recollection of the 
events of that evening. 

“ Do you recollect a man coming to that house who 
was soon joined by a lady who arrived in a coach ? ” 

The officer looked at him shrewdly and then asked: 

“ Are you a friend of his ? ” 

“ The very warmest.” 

“ Yes, I recollect such an instance.” 

“ You had some talk with him, didn’t you ? — wait ” he 
quickly added, as he saw the officer was very kindly dis- 
posed toward Frank and disliked the questioning. “ I 
know exactly what occurred. You stopped him, and he 
explained he had been called by letter there, and while 
you were talking the lady came, and then it turned out 
that they were both there by a plot intended to hurt one 
or both.” 

“ You’ve got it straight.” 


126 


ON THE RACK. 


“ Yes ; I have it both from the lady and gentleman. 
They are friends of mine.” 

“ Well, you see,” said the officer, “ he was a gentleman 
and awfully cut up about the trick, because of its being, 
played on the lady. As he acted more than nice to me: 
and was very anxious the lady shouldn’t be harmed, I- 
didn’t want to give them away, even if Mr. Beales wanted 1 
me to.” 

“ I’m glad to find you’re so friendly to him. Will you 
feel called upon to tell that tq any one ? ” 

“ Certainly not.” 

“ Suppose your superiors demand to know the story. 
How good will your recollections be ? ” 

The officer keenly regarded Tom, and asked : 

“ What do you mean by that ? ” 

“ I think, when you go off duty, you’ll be questioned 
about it.” 

“ By whom ? ” 

“ Captain Lawton.” 

The officer appeared worried. 

“ What’s it all about ?” 

Tom considered briefly, and his thoughts ran in this 
wise : that the officer, if questioned, would soon know why 
he was questioned ; but that if he gave the name in so im- 
portant a case, he would feel it his duty to communicate 
what he knew. There was just a chance that he would 
not be asked, that Lawton’s men would be satisfied in 
discovering who the woman was, awaiting Frank at the 
corner in the coach. He therefore determined he would 
not tell. 

* “ Well,” he said, “it is to the interest of both these 

people to keep this matter quiet. 1 think some inquiries 
have been put on foot and that there may be an effort to 
learn what was said at that time by both of them. By 


A GREAT BLUNDER . 


127 


such an inquiry, the lady, who is a lady, could only be 
hurt, and I wanted to know if you could see your way 
clear to keeping quiet.” 

“ How did they get on to it ? ” 

“By finding the driver, who drove the lady there.” 

“ Well, he heard a good deal of it. He could tell ’em.” 

“ But he hasn’t and won’t now.” 

“ Well, sir, I’d go as far to serve those two as any one. 
But Captain Lawton isn’t a man to be denied when he 
wants anything from one of the force. But that ain’t 
neither here nor there. The fact is that when I went off 
duty that night I reported it, without names, because 
they wouldn’t give ’em. So if they go to hunting, they’ll 
find the report and I’ll have to tell.” 

Tom’s hopes fell. He saw there was no way of over- 
coming the matter, or of stopping the progress that 
Lawton was making. 

“ But,” continued the officer, “ I’ll give you my word 
that I won’t say anything until I am asked. I won’t vol- 
unteer anything and I’ll forget all I can. That’s the 
best I can promise.” 

Tom was forced to go away defeated. He went 
straight to Braham’s office and reported to that lawyer 
the blow that had fallen upon them. 

“ Oh, Lawton will get there,” said the laywer. “ It’s a 
great strike for the district' attorney. If he had known 
it before we made our motion for bail, he would have 
opposed it. That’s the only compensation we have. 
There is only one more, and that is that we now know 
what the worst is against us. We won’t be trapped into 
thinking that the prosecutor’s side is weaker than it is. 
I never did believe but that it would come out.” 

That night, when Turner went off duty, he was ordered 
to report to Captain Lawton at ten the next morning. 


128 


ON THE RACK. 


CHAPTER XV. 

A FLANK MOVEMENT. 

'T'WELVE o’clock the following day saw Captain Law- 
1 ton at the office of the district attorney. 

He was elated. He had the whole story. The dis- 
trict attorney was jubilant. His case was fully made. 
The motive for the deed had been revealed. The provo- 
cation was strong enough to almost justify it. 

Captain Lawton listened complacently to the praises 
showered on his shrewdness and ingenuity. Finally he 
said : 

“Yes ; I suppose this makes the case strong enough 
to prevent any jury from escaping from a verdict of 
guilty. But, after all, I am sorry the poor fellow must 
hang for it.” 

“ He won’t hang for it,” said the district attorney. 

The captain stared in astonishment. 

“ Won’t be hung with that evidence ? ” he asked. 

“ No ; the evidence you bring saves his neck.” 

“Well, I’ll be hanged myself, if I understand law, if a 
conclusive bit of evidence like that weakens a case.” 

“It doesn’t weaken it in the sense you mean, and it is 
not law. But this evidence, which proves my case, will 
excite the widest sympathy for the prisoner. Every 
man who has a daughter, or a sweetheart, will find reason 
to justify the mighty anger the prisoner felt against Fel- 
lows. The truth is, a more dastardly plot against a man 
could hardly be conceived. It was mean, low-lived, 
utterly detestable, and when told will remove every ves- 
tige of sympathy for the dead man. Beside, the chival- 
ric determination of Pemberton to close his mouth and 


A FLANK MOVEMENT. 1 29 

endure the dangers consequent upon that determi- 
nation rather than that his lady love be dragged into a 
scandal, will appeal to all that is romantic in man. The 
sympathy will all be turned to him. You couldn’t get 
a jury of Americans to give a verdict of murder in the 
first degree, if you were to rake the whole country with 
a fine tooth comb.” 

“ Well,” said the captain, “ if I believed that, I do not 
think I would feel as jubilant as you seem to feel.” 

“ I am not anxious to hang the fellow,” replied the 
district attorney. “ I only want to prove my case — to 
justify my indictment and course up to this time. What 
it will do, will be to send him up for a term of years.” 

“ It will knock the defense,” said the captain. “ If I 
understand ft, they propose to stand or fall upon Pern- 
berton’s innocence.” 

“ It cannot be that they mean that,” said the district 
attorney. “ That was set up for the purpose of obtain- 
ing bail. Of course, Lowe and Braham know this story, 
and such shrewd and adroit fellows as they are, must 
appreciate its value, both to them and to me. They 
must see that it gives me what I wanted — a motive for 
the deed. They cannot, keen fellows as they are, fail 
to see how it will turn sympathy to their client. It will 
never do to underrate them. They are the ablest at the 
bar in this line of business. No, no ; they must have 
meant to use it, and were keeping it back to use with 
dramatic effect upon the trial. By Jove ! I do not 
know but that if we had gone on without knowledge, 
they might have pulled their man off with it, getting a 
kind of ‘justifiable homicide’ verdict. They surely 
mean to admit the shooting, set up it was done in hot 
blood, under unusual provocation ; or, that Pemberton, 
calling Fellows to account for it, a quarrel followed, and 


ON THE RACK. 


130 

Pemberton, defending himself from Fellows’s attack, 
shot him in self-defense. It will be a pretty defense, 
but we will take the starch out of it by springing it first.” 

“Tom Bryan,” said the captain, “doesn’t talk that 
way. He insists Pemberton is innocent, and the de- 
fense will be on that ground.” 

“ Oh, pshaw ! it can’t be. Tom has gone wild on this 
case.” 

“ My triumph will be in seeing Tom sat down upon 
for once in his life. He’s getting to be frightfully 
opinionated by reason of two or three successes, where 
he has opposed the theories of the police.” 

“ Well, Captain, you have him now. There is no 
escape for him. But see here ! You must, in view of 
this new evidence, put Pemberton under surveillance. 
If I had known this at the time of the motion for bail I 
would not have permitted it. And besides, the fact that 
we have this evidence must be kept a dead secret. Will 
your men talk ? ” 

“ Not they,” replied the captain confidently. “ Be- 
sides, the story has been gotten from several sources, 
and one does not know what the other does. I will take 
care of that.” 

But as confidently as the captain was, he was mistaken. 
As has been shown, Tom was already aware that the 
captain’s search for the mysterious woman had been re- 
warded, and he felt that a step or two more, which, in the 
nature of things he would make, would lead to the 
revelation of the story they had been at such pains to 
conceal. Consequently, he had the officer, Turner, care- 
fully shadowed, and when it was reported to him that he 
had gone to Captain Lawton, and that that dignitary had 
afterward gone straight to the district attorney, he was 
certain the captain was in possession of all the details. 


A FLANK MOVEMENT. Ijt 

He therefore threw himself in the way of Turner, who 
was loth to say anything, yet made Tom understand it 
was all out. Tom was confirmed in this opinion when 
the evening papers announced that the prosecution had 
obtained most important evidence against Pemberton, 
which the authorities would not reveal. 

These facts Tom at once communicated to Braham, 
who simply remarked : 

“ Yes ; I expected they would get to it after what you 
told me. We made an inexcusable blunder in not taking 
care of that driver. It cannot be helped now. The 
question is, how are we to handle it now that it is known ? 
That must be seriously considered.” 

The defense waited several days. No demonstration, 
however, was made by the prosecution. It was evidently 
content with the situation of affairs. So far as Tom was 
able to ascertain, no further work was being done. The 
case was made to its satisfaction, and it was only wait- 
ing for the trial day, which was to come in February — 
not two weeks away. 

Lowe’s inquiries in the neighborhood resulted in just 
one bit of information, which neither he nor Braham 
considered of much importance. 

A man named Whitehead, who had spent the evening 
at a friend’s house in Twentieth Street, stood upon the 
corner of that street and Fourth Avenue waiting for an 
up-bound car, about half past twelve o’clock, when he 
saw a man cross Fourth Avenue, whose manner was so 
strange as to arrest his attention. He had said to him- 
self the man is either drunk or demented. He was 
greatly excited and muttered to himself as he passed by. 
Whitehead watched him pass down Twentieth Street, on 
the same side of the street as that upon which the body 
of Clarence was found. He had, however, soon lost 


i3 2 


ON THE RACK. 


interest in the man and turned again to see if his car 
was coming. In a moment or two he heard a dull sort 
of sound. If it had not been so muffled in sound, he 
would have said that it resembled the report of a pistol. 
He had not a clear recollection of the appearance of 
the man, but thought he might have resembled Mr. 
Lowe’s description of Clarence. 

“ It is something, but not much,” said Lowe, as he 
talked it over with Braham. 

“ No, it is not much,” replied his colleague, “ but we 
will make all out of it we can.” 

In a day or two more, Tom was summoned hastily to 
Braham’s office, where he found Lowe closeted with the 
lawyer. 

“ Tom,” said Lowe, as the journalist entered, “ we 
have been talking over the case of Pemberton. We have 
reached the conclusion that since interest is dying out in 
the case to some extent, we must arouse it again.” 

Tom looked at both with surprise. 

“ Why,” he said, “ I should suppose that such a con- 
dition of things would be just what you would want.” 

“ So it would, in the majority of cases,” said Lowe. 
“ But this is a peculiar one, and we want public senti- 
ments actively ' at work for Pemberton from now until 
the trial comes off.” 

“ By George ! ” said Tom, “ it is hard enough to get 
anything new to say about the case without threshing 
over the old straw. I don’t see how it is to be done.” 

“You haven’t written that story of Fellows’s plot to 
draw Miss Standish into that house in Twenty-seventh 
Street.” 

Tom nearly fell from his chair, so great was the 
start he gave. 

“ Great Heavens ! Are you crazy ? ” 


A FLANK MOVEMENT. 133 

“ No ! ” said Braham, laughing. “ We are under the 
impression that we have our usual sound senses.” 

“You shouldn’t drink so much wine for lunch,” re- 
marked Tom. 

“ See here, Tom,” said Lowe, “ we’re neither drunk 
nor crazy — : — ” 

“Why,” exclaimed Tom, interrupting. “Everybody 
who read it, would say ‘ of course, there’s the motive for 
the deed.’ The suggestion, pardon my compliment, is 
monumental idiocy.” 

“ When caution serves you no longer, audacity is the 
next resource,” said Lowe. “ Attend to me a moment. 
The district attorney knows this story, doesn’t he ? ” 

“ Unfortunately ! ” 

“ He will make use of it, on the trial, won’t he? ” 

“ Unless he is as much of an imbecile as I take— myself 
to be if I print it.” 

“ He’ll handle it as he sees fit — givingsuch color as he 
wants to? ” 

“ Undoubtedly.” 

“ We’ll have to meet it then as best we can.” 

“ Of course.” 

“ And we will not be able to prevent it.” 

“ No,” said Tom doubtfully. 

« Well, then. Of course it is a serious thing, and 
if we could conceal it, we would ; but we can’t. There 
is, however, an advantageous side to us. It will bring 
sympathy to us. Since we can’t prevent its use, then let 
us use it before the prosecution does, giving our color to 
it and arousing all the sympathy we can for Pemberton.” 

Tom grasped the situation. 

“ By Jove ! there are two lawyers here and one idiot. 
I’m not a lawyer. Good ! Go ahead ! ” 

“ Now, suppose you get that story out to-morrow 


i34 


ON THE EACH. 


morning, weaving all the romance you can about it. Go 
back to the love-making, the quarrel between the two 
men, their admission to the firm, Pemberton’s dinner to 
his clerks, the letter brought to him, the revelation of the 
plot, its incidental frustration, the noble rage of Pem- 
berton, etc. etc.; don’t you think you would stir up the 
town ? ” 

“ No doubt of it.” 

“ Then the next day have interviews with the various 
witnesses.” 

“ Yes, yes.” 

“ And the following day take facsimiles of the letters 
received by Pemberton and Miss Standish. Work it up 
in your best vein. We’ll go to trial with sympathy fully 
aroused for our man. Then we’ll bring Miss Standish 
on to the stand and make her tell how she was duped, 
and so forth. See it now ? ” 

“ I do, in all its length and breadth. It’s audacious, 
but it is wise under the circumstances. Yet Pemberton 
will never consent. ” 

“ We must circumvent him, then,” said Lowe. “ Let’s 
have Whitney here.” 

The young lawyer was sent for and quickly responded. 
When the plan was revealed to him, he, too, saw its wis- 
dom, but he declared also that Frank would never con- 
sent to it, and doubted very much if Marion would. 

“ She will quickly enough,” cried Tom. “ She’s game 
to the very hem of her dress. But her father I would 
fear the most. ” 

“ Well,” said Braham, “ let us have Pemberton here 
and lay the matter before him.” 

He, too, came quickly. When the plan was proposed 
to him, he rebelled. He grew indignant over the idea of 
dragging his sacred relations with Marion before the 


A FLANK MOVEMENT. 


*35 


public. He would not listen to a single argument, nor 
give heed to the assertion of Lowe, that the prosecution 
would compel Miss Standish to testify. He grew so in- 
dignant that he walked out, forbidding the plan. 

The four men looked at each other, greatly dis- 
appointed. 

Said Lowe : “ Not only have we a dark case, but aeon- 
founded fool for a client. He’ll hang himself.” 

Tom leaped to his feet, and caught his hat, 

“ Where are you going, Tom ? ” asked Braham. 

“To see Miss Standish and lay the plan before 
her. ” 

“ Good* ! report what she says to it.” 

Tom hurried away, and to his satisfaction found Mar- 
ion at home. To her he gave the plan and the reasons 
that lay back of it. She promptly acquiesced. 

“ My feelings are not to be considered,” she said. 
“ Indeed, I haven’t any to interfere with Frank’s safety. 
Frank must not be consulted in the matter.” 

But she never loved Frank so much as at the moment, 
when, standing in the presence of his great danger, he 
was willing to forget everything but her, and when she 
was about to make a sacrifice for him. 

“There is no doubt about the effect it would have for 
him, but before it is done I think you ought to consult 
your father.” 

“Fortunately, he is at home this moment. He will 
consent. There is no false sentiment about him.” 

She called her father into the room. He listened to 
the story as told by Tom and to the arguments tending 
to the value of the publication. 

He thought over the matter in silence a few moments. 

“Well, daughter, we have undertaken to give our sup- 
port to Frank. What do you say ? ” 


1 3 6 


ON THE RACK. 


“Say? Publish it, of course. I’ve never doubted 
that for a moment since I heard the reasons.” 

Her tone was so positive, and her manner so earnest, 
that her father smiled indulgently upon her. 

“You don’t believe in a half-hearted support, then ?” 

“ Indeed, I do not. I would not fancy my affairs 
being given to the public, under ordinary circumstances. 
But this is dire necessity, and I’m glad — no, I’m proud 
to do this ; I would do more if I could.” 

“ There’s your answer, Bryan,” said Colonel Standish, 
“she is my daughter, and neither she nor I believe in 
half friendship. We’ve undertaken to save the young 
man.” 

“Come into the library,” said Marion, “and I’ll help 
to write it.” ** 

“Great Heavens ! ” said Tom, some time after, when 
a friend was congratulating him upon the excellence of 
the article. “ Why shouldn’t it have been good, when a 
beautiful girl with earnest eyes full of love for her lover, 
was bending over the table, telling her own love story 
and indignantly relating how nearly she had been 
trapped ? It would have been inspiration for any 
man.” 

The article certainly made a sensation. It read like a 
chapter from a novel. Captain Lawton was dumb- 
founded. He hastened to the office of the district 
attorney to assure him that the leak did not come from 
his men. 

That official laughed, when he entered. 

“ You can’t get the start of Lowe and Braham. They 
have come to know that we had the story and they do 
not propose that we shall tell it our way. Smart fel- 
lows ! It is just as I told you. They mean to admit 
the shooting and offer self-defense as a reason. They 


A FLANK MOVEMENT. 


137 


have taken the surprise out of our side of the case. By 
George ! those fellows know how to try a cause outside 
the court as well as they do inside. And what an aid 
they have in that fellow Bryan ! ” * 

“D Bryan ! ” exclaimed the captain irritably. 

“ He’s the one that learned we had the story. I never 
met such a fellow. You never know where he’ll turn up 
next.” 

As a matter of fact, Tom next turned up at the cap- 
tain’s office. 

“What kind of a monkeyshine is this, Lawton?” he 
said indignantly. “Turner refuses to interview on that 
scene in Twenty-seventh Street. He says he has orders. 
What good does it serve ? The story is out, but I want 
to keep the sensation going.” 

Lawton himself thought no end was to be served, so 
he good-naturedly gave permission for Turner to inter- 
view. 

The next morning not only did Tom have the inter- 
view with Turner, the driver of the coach, the clerk who 
had interfered to put a stop to the altercation between 
Frank and Clarence, but with the two policemen off 
duty and the proprietress of the house into which 
Clarence had hoped to lure Marion. 

The other journals, amazed by the beat, took a sug- 
gestion from the prosecution and tried to point out the 
fact of a motive for the murder being discovered in it. 
But the romance was on the other side. The town rang 
with it. Mothers with daughters discussed it with their 
husbands at their firesides, and as Lowe had predicted, 
public sympathy veered completely. 

Frank was indignant, but his friends, including 
Marion, were against him, and he was forced to be quiet 
under it. 


138 


ON THE RACK. 


The next day the letters in fac-smile appeared, and 
the prosecution became anxious. 

“ They’ll pull him off with an acquittal if this thing 
goes on,” said the district attorney to his deputy, who 
was to assist him in the trial. 

The trial was only a week away. 


CHAPTER XVI. 

ANXIOUS DAYS. 

A FTER Frank’s release from the Tombs on bail, the 
time passed most rapidly. The day of the beginning 
of the term at which he was to be tried approached 
surely and swiftly, and no progress had been made in 
establishing his innocence. 

During his confinement in the Tombs he had been 
hopeful — or rather, he had been confident — that the re- 
sult could be none other than his acquittal. He did not 
shoot Clarence, therefore it was absurd to suppose that 
he could be punished for a crime he did not commit. 
He was in no fear as to that. What gave him appre- 
hension was that he would not be so triumphantly cleared 
of the charge that everybody would be assured of the 
fact of his innocence ; that there might be enough left 
undemonstrated to give prejudiced people reason to 
doubt. That his life or liberty was endangered was a 
consideration too absurd to be entertained. There 
might have been periods in the world’s history when an 
innocent man could find his life in jeopardy, but not in 
free America, in the nineteenth century, with its justice 
and civilization. 

When released, he had engaged in the work of estab- 


ANXIOUS DAYS. 


139 


lishing a defense, earnestly and ardently, but wholly 
with a view to a conclusive vindication. He labored 
assiduously to bring the facts to a plain showing. 

Before many days, however, he became aware of two 
things : First, that his counsel believed him to be in a 
very great danger, and were far more concerned in en- 
deavors to save him from the extreme penalty of the 
law than in a triumphant vindication ; and second, that 
the circumstances were wholly against him, without a 
single mitigating incident. He saw his friends busy 
with an endeavor to form public opinion, and realized 
that they relied more upon the sympathy they could ex- 
cite for him than upon a denial of these circumstances. 

This staggered him, and then frightened him. Re- 
viewing their work from the beginning, he was compelled 
to admit that no one was in a position to controvert a 
single circumstance. It was impossible for him to deny 
the quarrels with Clarence, nor his attempt on New 
Year’s Eve to harm Clarence, nor his threats to kill 
him. He could not prove that the revolver, with his 
name on it, had been borrowed by Clarence more than a 
year previous, and had remained in his possession since, 
nor that his statement that on that night he had walked 
over the route he had. Nor could he in any way con- 
trovert the fact that in his base intrigue, Clarence had 
given him great provocation, nor prevent the deduction 
that therein lay the motive for the deed. 

When he considered that neither Tom Bryan, with all 
his shrewdness and energy, nor Lowe, nor Braham, with 
all their ability and experience, had been able to bring 
forth a single fact which could aid him in any way, he 
became discouraged. 

From the moment of his arrest he had been a changed 
man. He had been crushed and humiliated by the ac- 


140 


ON THE RACK. 


cusation. All his light-hearted gayety was gone ; the 
laughter was hushed on his lips, and the merriment was 
fled from his eyes. This was the effect of the horrible 
charge -under which he was suffering. 

His sadness was not obtrusive. He bore himself with 
simple dignity, never speaking of his troubles volun- 
tarily, and evading a discussion of them when he could. 
Mr. Evans had said no man could have borne himself 
better. 

But as the days sped, and he found his position no 
better than it had been in the beginning — indeed, worse, 
he became discouraged and utterly hopeless. This con- 
dition of mind, however, he sedulously concealed from 
those laboring so hard in his interests, and from those 
who loved him. 

He was oppressed when he saw the enormous machin- 
ery- of the police in operation with apparently resistless 
motion, seeking to force him to the gallows. It was with 
a dread sort of fascination that he watched its powerful, 
ponderous action, forging the chains with which to bind 
him, remorselessly moving on, bent only on securing 
his destruction, animated by a vindictive spirit, which 
sternly rejected any possibility of his innocence. It 
seemed frightful to him, that he, so inoffensive, so de- 
fenseless, should be the object of all this power. Why 
should it be so ? Why was his blood so thirsted for ? 
Why should society, even in its own protection, erect so 
powerful a machine to crush one of its innocent mem- 
bers ? All he had read of the Inquisition and the auto- 
da-fd rose before him, and he thought it was all renewed 
after centuries of progress toward the light, in the mod-’ 
ern police system. He was innocent, yet no effort was 
made to determine that ; only endeavor to prove him 
guilty. In the beginning it had said he killed Clarence, 


ANXIOUS DA YS. 


141 

and therefore must die, and all its subsequent efforts 
were made, not to discover whether the assumption was 
true, but to make it appear true. 

Then there was the public prosecutor. Once, in his 
happier days, he had supposed that the district attorney 
was partly a judicial officer, seeking the truth, and not 
an advocate having no other thought than to prove the 
assumption of the police authorities. He said to himself, 
all the force and power of this man’s great place was like 
the machinery of the police department, turned to wrest 
his life from him, without one thought as to whether 
there was a doubt as to his guilt. 

He grew morbid. He came to regard the two depart- 
ments of government as two remorseless monsters, from 
whom there was no escape, but which, hour by hour, 
were slowly but surely advancing upon him, and which 
on the day of the trial would seize him in their fatal em- 
brace and finally destroy him. 

With this morbidity came indifference. He ceased to 
labor in his own behalf. He concluded he must suffer 
the extreme penalty. He concealed his conclusions 
and faced the thought of death with the calmness of 
despair. 

But this condition of mind did not prevent him from 
arranging his affairs. One day, not long before the trial, 
he was closeted for a long time with a lawyer, during 
which time documents were drawn, signed, and executed. 
When the lawyer was gone, Frank appeared in the office 
of Mr. Whitney, closing the door after him. 

“ Mr. Whitney,” he said, “Will you give me a little of 
your time for consideration of a matter wholly personal 
to myself ? ” 

“ Certainly, my boy,” said the old gentleman, laying 
his business aside. “ What is it ? Sit down.” 


142 


ON THE RACK. 


Frank pulled up a chair to the old merchant’s desk and 
sat down. 

“As soon,” he said, “as my salary from this house be- 
came more than sufficient for my needs, I adopted the 
rule of saving as much as I could. In course of time 
the sum thus saved became considerable, and I invested 
it in real estate — fortunately, as it turned out, since cir- 
cumstances I needn’t stop to relate sent the property to 
an increased value shortly after. I caught the rise at the 
very top and disposed of it with very considerable profit 
to myself. I invested again, and that property has 
steadily increased in value. During the latter years of 
my management of my department my salary has been 
liberal, and the percentages on the sales largely increased 
by reason of the largely increased business of the depart- 
ment. The consequence has been that I am able to ac- 
count myself worth, apart from any interest I may have 
in this house, $40,000.” 

“ A very tidy sum,” remarked Mr. Whitney approv- 
ingly. 

“ This unfortunate affair that I am involved in,” Frank 
continued, “ will probably culminate within the next 
three days. I have been arranging my affairs. The in- 
terest I hold in this house, in view of the short time it 
has existed, cannot amount to much. I have not consid- 
ered it. All of my property I have turned over to you 
in trust. Here are the papers. Can I ask you to take 
the trust? ” 

“ Why, what for ?” questioned Mr. Whitney, much as- 
tonished. 

“ I desire the income from it shall go to my mother so 
long as she may live,” continued Frank. “ She is aged, 
will have but few expenses, and it will, I think, be suffi- 
cient. When she dies, I wish the whole amount to go 


ANXIOUS DA YS. 1 43 

to Marion Standish. It is all provided for in these 
papers.” 

Mr. Whitney stared at Frank blankly. He saw that 
Frank had no hope ; that he was preparing to die. His 
calmness and simplicity of manner was so pathetic, that 
the old merchant could not trust himself to speak. 

“ Of course,” said Frank, “ I know this will be a bur- 
den to you ; but I thought that perhaps — you know — 
because — of the peculiar circumstances, you would not 
refuse.” 

“But, bless me!” cried the old gentleman. “What 
do you want to do this for ? ” 

“ There is one thing more,” Frank went on, not 
heeding Mr. Whitney’s question. “ I have only to-day 
learned that you have advanced money on my account. 
How much, your son refuses now to tell me. It is also 
provided in these papers, that you shall reimburse your- 
self for all outlays.” 

“ Hang it ! ” exclaimed the old merchant irritably ; 
“ what do you mean by all this? ” 

“ My trial comes off next week.” 

“ Suppose it does.” 

“ The worst will happen.” 

“ Nonsense ! ” cried the old man, rising nervously 
from his chair, and showing no little agitation. “You 
mustn’t get discouraged. I have been bragging about 
the manly way you have met this trouble. You mustn’t 
get frightened.” 

“ I am not frightened,” replied Frank quietly. “ I am 
looking the matter squarely in the face, and very soberly. 
The circumstances have conspired to my disadvantage. 
I shall not be able to overcome them. They mean to do 
their worst — to hang me — and they’ll do it.” 

The old merchant, who had been pacing up and down 


144 


ON THE RACK. 


the narrow apartment to relieve his agitation, was horror- 
stricken. He stopped before Frank, regarding him won- 
deringly a moment, and then asked abruptly ; 

“ Who are they ? ” 

“ The authorities. They are remorseless. It seems 
to be a matter of pride — not justice — with them to con- 
vict me. Everything runs in their favor.” 

A horrible thought shot athwart the mind of Mr. 
Whitney. 

“ Do you mean to confess ? ” 

“I have nothing to confess,” replied Frank, rather 
surprised at the question. “ I am innocent.” 

“ Do you mean to plead guilty, then ? ” 

“ Never ! ” answered Frank, this time indignantly. “ I 
am not guilty ! ” 

“ Then what do you mean by all this nonsense ? ” 
asked his partner, almost sternly. 

“ As I have said, there is apparently no escape for me. 
The circumstances are too much for me. It is my mis- 
fortune.” 

All this was said so simply, so quietly, with no pre- 
tense of despair or rebelling, but simply as a fact which 
could no longer be opposed, that the old merchant was 
confounded. He was silent, but closely watchful of 
Frank. For a time Frank was also silent, and when he 
did speak it was as if he was giving unconscious utter- 
ance to the thoughts possessing him. 

“ It is sad to be cut off in early manhood in this way. 
And life, only a little while ago, looked so bright to me. 
I was on the highway to wealth and influence. My life 
was crowned by the love of a charming woman, and I 
had friends who loved me, but now — ah, well ! I will 
meet my fate as bravely as I can. It is hard, though.” 

Rousing himself, he addressed the old merchant, 


ANXIOUS DAYS. 


145 


“Will you take this trust?" 

“ Take it ? No ! ” cried Mr. Whitney, greatly moved, 
and angry with himself that he was. “You’re worth 
fifty thousand dead men ! In ten days you’ll be moving 
around taking care of your own property.’’ 

“ I do not deceive myself,’’ persisted Frank. “ I see 
it clearly. The coil has been wound about me and dili- 
gent effort has not been able to take off a single strand. 
No matter how hard I have labored, or my friends, or 
my counsel, the fact remains that the case is as strong 
against me as it was in the beginning — stronger.’’ 

“ Suppose it is ? What then ? ” excitedly replied 
Mr. Whitney. “ Does that mean they are going to con- 
vict you ? Certainly not. You are innocent, aren’t you ? 
Can they hang an innocent man in this country ? Cer- 
tainly not. You’ve grown morbid over this matter. It 
all comes from your brooding so much. Here, give me 
those papers ! ” 

He caught them from Frank, tossed them into his safe, 
and closed the door. 

“ There,” he said, “ when the trial is over and you’re 
acquitted, come to me and we’ll burn them together.” 

Frank shook his head, and smiled sadly, as he rose 
from his chair. 

Mr. Whitney placed both his hands upon the young 
man’s shoulders, looking him straight in the eyes, saying 
earnestly, even fondly : 

“Frank, I don’t believe much in premonitions. Yet I 
am certain you will be freed — absolutely certain. The 
verdict of murder will not be given against you.” 

Mr. Whitney did not think it worth while to say that 
his son had said murder in the first degree, and that 
Frank would escape the gallows. 

“ It’s your kindly interest in me,” returned Frank. 


146 


ON THE EACH. 


“ Kindly humbug ! See here, get yourself out of this 
frame of mind ! It will never do for you to carry around 
such a face. Go on with your business, and don’t forget 
that I am your friend now and always.” 

Frank went to his own room to find a note from 
Braham summoning him to a conference upon the 
case. 

He went out through the salesroom, and as he did so, 
it was with the thought that only a few days more and 
he would cease to be an accustomed figure there. He 
saluted the clerks as they spoke to him, cheerily, and 
stopped to welcome one who had been absent a long 
time through illness. 

The streets were busy with men hurrying up and 
down, the sun shining brightly. He looked upon the 
busy scene with strong regrets, as he thought how soon 
he was to be removed from it, and the brightness of the 
day only increased his own melancholy. 

Arriving at the office of Mr. Braham, he found Lowe 
and the younger Whitney present. 

Mr. Braham opened the business briskly. 

“ The time has come, Pemberton,” he said, “ when we 
must make final preparations for the trial. It will be 
called Tuesday next. Now, after consultation with my 
associate and Mr. Whitney, we have determined that it 
is a duty we owe you to lay certain considerations before 
you. While it is never proper to let go of the most hope- 
ful — the most sanguine aspect of the case, it is folly not 
to regard it also in its worst appearances. Hence, it has 
been thought best to present to you certain facts. The 
defense is not so good as we could wish. We cannot 
shut our eyes to the fact that the other side has a very 
strong showing of circumstantial evidence against you — 
very strong, indeed ! ” 


ANXIOUS DAYS. 


147 


He paused to perceive the effect of his words upon 
Frank, who nodded in acquiescence. 

“ But,” he went on, “ on the other hand, we do not 
fail to recognize that on the other side they have not got 
one iota of direct evidence ” 

“ And that is no small matter, either,” interrupted 
Lowe. 

“ No,” continued Braham, “ as Mr. Lowe says, that is 
not a small matter. Of course we shall labor to the best 
of our ability to discredit that circumstantial evidence — 
throw doubt upon it — tear it to pieces where we can. 
But — and this is the point — there is one view of this 
matter we consider it our duty to submit to you. We 
believe public sympathy is running with us — that it has 
been ever since the publication of the Twenty-seventh 
Street episode.” 

Frank winced at this, but Braham went on : 

“ Now it is possible for us to treat this thing — this epi- 
sode — so as to show that if any man was ever justified in 
the act alleged against you, you were under the provoca- 
tion ” 

Frank made a gesture of dissent and attempted to 
reply. 

“ Hear me out,” pleaded Braham. “ We can treat 
this, as I say, in such a manner as to make it tell in miti- 
gation. In this way: We are innocent, but the provoca- 
tion was so great, that if it were done, it would not be 
surprising or inexcusable ” 

Frank broke in fiercely and indignantly : 

“ I did not shoot Clarence Fellows. I have not seen 
him from the moment we parted on Sixth Avenue, on the 
last night of last year. From that story I will never 
vary, to the last moment, even when I stand face to face 
with death. I want nothing offered in mitigation of the 


ON THE EACH. 


148 

deed. It was not done by me. That has been my 
defense in the past, it is now and always will be. On 
that I stand or fall. I understand you fully, but I would 
despise myself, and my friends would be justified in 
despising me, if to save myself from possible death, I 
was to admit, in however a slight degree, the possibility 
of my having done this thing to a man who had once 
been my friend. If you attempt it in court, I will arise 
in my place and denounce it and denounce you.” 

The cold, impassive Whitney, impulsively rose and 
grasping Frank’s hand, shook it heartily. 

“ Plucky and nervy to the last,” muttered Lowe. 

“ Well,” said Braham, “ I did not expect anything else 
from you. We have performed our duty in submitting 
the point. It shall be as you wish.” 


CHAPTER XVII. 

THE DAWN BREAKS. 

W HILE the conference described in the foregoing 
chapter was in progress, Tom Bryan was wandering 
disconsolately about Union Square. 

He, too, was discouraged, and he had entered the Park 
to avoid acquaintances and think. None of the efforts 
he had put forth for Frank had borne fruit. While many 
people had responded to the advertisement, asking for 
communication with any one who was on Fifth Avenue, 
Broadway, or Seventeenth Street between the hours of 
eleven on New Year’s Eve and one in the morning of 
New Year’s Day, none had seen Frank, or could call 
such a person to mind. 


THE DA WN BREAKS. 


149 


Tom was in real dread of the outcome. During these 
days of ardent partisanship of the cause of Frank, he had 
become attached to the man in whose behalf he labored, 
and all other considerations were lost in the fear that the 
trial would result disastrously for Frank. 

As cold as the weather was, he sat down on one of the 
benches, still remaining in the park, and reviewed the 
whole case and the efforts made from the beginning. 
While thus going over them step by step, it occurred to 
him that he had not seen or talked with the sergeant on 
duty at the station-house, to which the body of Clarence, 
when found, was taken. 

With little hope that anything would result from a visit 
to the officer, but remembering that he had secured many 
important points in the past from even more unpromis- 
ing efforts, he determined to seek the sergeant out at 
once. 

As he left the park, at Seventeenth Street, he was 
accosted by ayoungman, certainly not more than twenty- 
one. A harder or more unprepossessing specimen it 
would have been difficult to find. 

He was of the genus “tough.” He wore the inevita- 
ble black double-breasted coat, the drab trousers, skin 
tight until they reached the ankles, when they suddenly 
sprang into alarming width, and a black billycock hat, 
all of which, in those days, was almost the uniform of the 
horde of young men infesting the East Side, whose highest 
ambition was to “down their man.” 

“ Say,” said this redoubtable specimen in an ugly and 
aggressive manner, “ you’re Mistur Bryan, ain’t yer ? ” 

“ Yes,” replied Tom, eyeing the young fellow curiously 
and suspiciously. 

“ I’ve bin a lookin’ fur ye fur two days. i Bucky ’ 
Mallon wants to see yer.” 


ON THE RACK. 


* 5 ° 

“Who is Mr. ‘ Bucky ’ Mallon?” asked Tom, “and 
where is he ? ” 

The tough young man looked at Tom uneasily, not 
quite certain that Tom was not making fun of him. He 
flipped his hat back on his head, hitched one shoulder 
forward aggressively, and protruding his under lip, scowl- 
ing the while, answered : 

“ Say ! you know him. He’s de feller you got pulled 
for wiping a moll across de jaw — six weeks ago an’ more.” 

Tom recollected that while passing along the Bowery 
early in the previous December, he saw a young ruffian, 
apparently without reason, strike a girl a frightful blow 
in the face. Under the indignation of the moment, he 
had insisted that an officer, who appeared on the scene a 
moment after, should arrest the fellow, promising he would 
appear to press the charge. He also recollected that the 
girl, hardly out of short dresses, with a swollen cheek and 
blackened eye, the result of the blow, had, after the man 
had been taken away, abused him so loudly and so 
violently for causing the arrest, that he was glad to escape 
from her tongue. 

And he further recollected that later in the evening, 
when he was at work at the office, the girl had come to 
him with a young fellow of the same type, who, she said, 
was her “brudder,” begging Tom not to appear against 
the ruffian. . His indignation having expended itself, he 
had consented, and the young rascal was discharged. 

Afterward he had met the fellow, and to his great as- 
tonishment Tom found him filled with a strange sort of 
gratitude for having been released so easily, winding up 
with the remark, “ I’m yer friend, and don’t yer furgit it ; 
if yer want anything I’m yer man ; send fur me.” 

“ Yes, I recollect him,” replied Tom, as he recalled 
these incidents. 


THE DAWN BREAKS. 15 1 

“ He is in de Tombs, he is, and he wants fur to see 
you.” 

“What is he in for ? ” 

“ Oh, a feller hit ’im in de back ov de neck, an’ drawd 
on ’im, so he cut ’im.” 

“ Did he kill the man ? ” 

“ Naw ! ” answered the young fellow, most con- 
temptuously. “ He wus only scratched.” 

Whether the contempt of the young fellow so vigor- 
ously expressed was because “ Bucky ” Mallon did not 
kill the man, or because the scratch was of too trivial 
dimensions to justify an arrest, Tom was unable to de- 
termine. 

“ What does he want from me ? ” 

“ I dunno ; I wus to see him, an’ he ses, ses he, 
‘Crow, you go an’ find Missur Bryan, de reporter ov de 
Sol, an’ tell ’em I wants fur to see him on sumpen im- 
portant.’ So I’ve bin tryin’ fur to find you ever since 
till now, wen I runned agin ye.” 

Tom could see no reason why Mallon should want to 
see him. 

“ Shall I tell ’im you’ll come ? ” 

“ Oh, yes ; when I go down there I’ll go to see him.” 

“ 01 right.” 

The young fellow pulled his hat over his eyes, scowled 
again, hitched forward one shoulder and walked away 
with a defiant swagger. 

Tom, watching him, thought the time was not far dis- 
tant when he would figure in the criminal statistics of 
the city. 

Dismissing the episode from his mind, he returned to 
Frank’s case and pursued his way to the station-house, 
whither he was going when he met the young man. 

Knowing well that if he were to begin by asking ques- 




ON THE EACH. 


tions relative to Fellows’s murder, he would excite sus- 
picions as to his purpose, when he arrived and found 
that the sergeant at the desk was the one on duty on the 
morning in question, he talked about indifferent matters, 
hoping some turn in the conversation would enable him 
to bring in the. subject naturally. 

The sergeant, however, brought the matter up himself. 

“Mr. Pemberton’s trial goes on Tuesday, doesn’t it, 
Bryan ? ” the sergeant asked. 

“Yes ; it will be called on that day.” 

“ It will go pretty hard with him, won’t it ? ” 

“ Oh, I don’t know,” replied Tom indifferently. 
“ There isn’t any direct evidence. It’s all circumstan- 
tial, and I don’t take much stock in that.” 

“ Well, I don’t know much about it,” continued the 
sergeant. “ I was on duty here when Fellows was 
brought in. Norton, the detective, was here at the 
time. He’s been working on the case ever since until a 
little while ago. He was in this morning and said he’d 
been taken off it and put on something else, because 
they had got all the evidence in and Pemberton would 
swing for it.” 

“ Perhaps they have, and, perhaps they haven’t,” 
replied Tom. “ I don’t think they have.” 

“ They say around here,” the sergeant went on, “ that 
the defense is going to be that Pemberton didn’t do it, 
and that nobody did it, except the man himself — suicide, 
you know. And I was thinking this morning that there 
might be something in that, because when we got word 
here that a man had been shot and they were going to 
bring him here, I sent for the police surgeon. The first 
word he said when he looked at the body was that it was 
a case of suicide. That would kind of look like it, 
wouldn’t it ? ” 


THE DAWN BREAKS. 


*53 


Tom could with difficulty repress his excitement as he 
listened to the gossip of the sergeant. As calmly as he 
could, he replied : - 

“ Yes, it would look like it. I suppose the defense 
have got the surgeon for a witness.” 

“ Oh, I suppose so ; they wouldn’t let a point like that 
go by them. He isn’t connected with the force now. 
The fact is, that night was his last tour of duty. He’d 
resigned to take effect with the end of the year. He’s 
in private practice with his uncle, round there in Nine- 
teenth Street.” 

“ What is the name of this surgeon ? ” 

“ His name is Elwell. And he’s a first-rate sort of a 
fellow. I was sorry to see him go.” 

At last ! Tom had fallen upon a point of importance. 
So soon as he could disengage himself from the chatty 
sergeant, he got away and hurried to Lowe to communi- 
cate the great news. 

The lawyer was overjoyed. 

“By Heaven, Tom, you’ve got a point of great 
value ! ” he cried enthusiastically. “ At last we’ve got 
something to stand upon. Now, don’t you see how I’ll 
weave that in with Whitehead’s story as to the man he 
saw crossing Fourth Avenue, muttering to himself. It’s 
the only substantial point we’ve got.” 

“ Yes, that’s true,” said Tom complacently. “ What a 
lucky thought it was for me to go to that station-house ! ” 

“ It shows how desperate is our case when we jump at 
such a thing as our principal point. See here, Tom ; 
come with me and we’ll call on Elwell at once.” 

They set out immediately. 

Dr. Elwell was in when they called. 

In answer to the statement of their purpose in calling 
upon him, he replied : 


*54 


ON THE RACK . 


“ Oh, yes ; I recollect the case very well. I am not 
likely to forget it, since it was the very last case I had as 
a police surgeon. I must have my notes that I made 
immediately after I left the station-house. I’ll get them.” 

He went to a desk in the corner, and brought out a 
package of papers, from which he extracted one. 

“ Yes, there they are,” he continued. 

After having examined it, he said : 

“ The man had been dead four or five hours when he 
was brought in. Shot in the right temple ; death was 
instantaneous, as the ball entered the brain. I have 
noted here, probably self-inflicted. My reason for that 
is that the muzzle was evidently placed close against 
the temple, and there were marks of powder in the skin 
about the wound. Then the location of the wound 
rather leads to that theory.” 

“ Ah ! ” said Lowe, “ follow that up, please.” 

“ Well, my observation has been that when a man is 
shot by some one else, the ball enters the face, or 
head. If two men are in a quarrel, they usually 
face each other and the ball — if one is fired — enters the 
person somewhere about the front of him. If it is a 
stealthy murder, at his back. I cannot call to mind, in 
my experience, where a ball fired by another person pur- 
posely, has entered upon the side of the person shot. 
Now, the contrary is the case in suicide. It usually is in 
some part of the head where it is unlikely a ball fired by 
another person would enter. Such, at all events, was 
the impression made upon me at once.” 

“ Did you make a further examination ? ” 

“ Oh, no ; my duty was to afford relief immediately to 
the wounded. It was no part of my duty to inquire into 
the cause of death. When I found he was dead and had 
been for some hours, my duty was at an end.” 


THE DAWN BREAKS. 155 

“ Do you know that a man named Pemberton is under 
charge for murder of that man ?” 

“Yes ; I’ve read the newspaper accounts.” 

“ That does not accord with your theory ? ” 

“ No. I suppose some facts justifying the charge had 
been developed at the coroner’s inquest. I did not fol- 
low that part of it.” 

“As a matter of fact,” said Lowe, “ none were de- 
veloped in any way direct. They are wholly circumstan- — 
tial, such as do exist. I am counsel for the defense. 
We should like to subpoena you as a witness.” 

“ I shall obey if you do.” 

“The trial comes on Tuesday next. I don’t think we 
will need you on that day at all events. But if you will 
hold yourself in readiness and leave your tracks so we can 
find you, we will send for you when we do want you.” 

“ Very well.” 

They took their leave, and when they were on the street 
again, Lowe said : 

“ He will make a good witness. His evidence will be in 
the light of expert testimony. Braham will be very glad 
to hear of this. By George ! it is the first light that has 
broken on our horizon since we took hold of the case. 

It is the only bright spot. It is not conclusive, but it’s a 
great help. We must get up a lot of other medical testi- 
mony to bolster up his theory. I must get Dr. Rennie, 
an old army surgeon, — served all through the war, — and 
question him. His office is not far from here, in Twenty- 
fourth Street. Let’s go now.” 

They were fortunate, also, in finding this physician in, 
and after listening to Lowe he was inclined to support 
Dr. Elwell’s theory. 

“ Since I am the carrier of news to Miss Standish,” 
said Tom, when they were on the street again, “ I’ll go 


i5 6 


ON THE RACK . 


up and tell her this. She suffers a great deal, as brave 
and cheerful as she always is before Pemberton. A little 
bit like this will relieve the strain on her.” 

Thus they parted. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

LIGHTS AND SHADOWS. 

I T had been a matter of very serious consideration with 
Frank as to whether he should prepare his mother for 
the final result of the trial. She was aged. At the time 
of his arrest she had been so greatly distressed that she 
had been quite ill. But from the moment he had been 
released upon bail she had recovered. He found that 
she had taken great comfort in his release, and had given 
it an importance, as presaging a satisfactory ending, the 
circumstances did not justify. As she saw him going and 
coming, devoting himself to his usual life, she had come 
to regard the approaching trial with an equanimity from 
which he could not but feel it would be cruel to arouse 
her. 

To alarm her now and to keep her in suspense during 
the trial, would not, in his judgment, lessen the shock of 
a fatal termination. So he determined to permit her to 
continue in her happy confidence. 

With Marion, however, it was wholly different. She 
had followed closely, with anxious solicitude, every turn 
of the events, whether they told for or against Frank. 
She was fully alive to all the dangers by which he was 
encompassed. But, unlike him, she maintained a strong 
hope as to the outcome, 


LIGHTS AND SHADOWS. 


157 


On the night of the day on which he had transferred 
his property to Mr. Whitney, he went to Marion. She 
was expecting him, and awaited his coming with impa- 
tience. Tom had brought her the news as to what Dr. 
Elwell would testify. Consequently, when he arrived he 
found her radiant. 

She led him into the library and said : 

“ I have great good news ! ” 

Then she told him the story told her by Tom. 

“ The man is indefatigable,” replied Frank, with a quiver 
of grateful emotion. “ I owe him more than I shall ever 
be able to repay. Yes, it is something. It introduces 
the element of doubt. The prosecution will endeavor to 
shake it, and perhaps may be able to controvert the 
theory. Yet it must have some effect.” 

“ Oh, if we could only and some one to corroborate 
your statement of your walk after you left me on that 
fearful night,” she cried, ‘‘then everything would be 
complete.” 

“ It is useless,” he said. “ Everything possible has 
been done. Advertisements have been inserted in the 
papers and nothing has come of them. Bryan has care- 
fully investigated the matter with detectives, and no re- 
sult. I have walked over the same route twice with him 
— once in the day-time and once between the hours of 
eleven at night and one in the morning ; but nothing 
occurred to revive my memory as to any other incident. 
And, by the way, we made it in just the time I did that 
night — reaching the Union Square Hotel a few minutes 
before one.” 

“ Have you told the lawyers of this ? ” 

“ Of what ? Our walk ? ” 

“ Yes ; that is, that you made the walk in about the 
same time with Mr. Bryan as when you were alone ? ” 


ON THE RACK. 


I5 8 

“ No ; it is of no importance.” 

“ But it seems to me it is. It tends to the credibility 
of your story.” 

“ Do you think so ? ” 

“ I am certain Mr. Lowe would regard it as a great 
point.” 

“ Well then, I will tell them. But after all, effort is 
useless. The police authorities and the prosecution are 
determined upon my sacrifice. It is a matter of pride 
with them. The case has excited a good deal of atten- 
tion, and were my innocence to be clearly established 
they would regard it as a personal defeat, as they will my 
conviction a personal triumph.” 

“ That is horrible ! ” exclaimed Marion, aghast at the 
mere suggestion. “ You would make them out blood- 
thirsty in the extreme.” 

“ It is so, nevertheless. It is pride in their profession. 
They have declared me guilty — they jumped to the con- 
clusion I was in the beginning, and they have labored 
diligently to make the facts conform to their theory. 
Now, in order to prove that they were right and have 
made no mistakes, they will hang me if they can, with- 
out a single consideration as to whether or not there is a 
possibility of their having made a mistake. They cannot 
afford to be mistaken ; to hang me will be to prove they 
made no mistakes.” 

Marion looked at him long and steadily. Then she 
laid her hand upon his arm with a soft, clinging, caress- 
ing touch. 

“And you believe they will do it?” she asked, her 
eyes shining with deep love and sympathy. 

“ I believe they will do it.” 

“ And you have lost hope ? ” 

“Yes; I anticipate the worst. I am ready. I have 


LIGHTS AND SHADOWS . 


159 


put my affairs into shape. I have disposed of all my 
property. I will meet my fate as bravely as I can. 
But, oh, Marion, it is hard. Just as I have won your 
love and as I was looking forward to a happy and 
blessed life with you, when the future was rosy with 
bifight promise, to be thus cut off. Your love and de- 
votion, the nobleness of your nature, the unselfish ten- 
derness you have shown me, all manifested so strongly 
in these my troubles, only increases my regret, for I 
know now what I am losing and what, under more happy 
circumstances, I might have had. As much as I love 
and esteemed you before, it is only since these troubles 
I have come to know what you really are, and what a 
prize I gained when I won your love.” 

“Hush, hush, darling!” murmured Marion, bravely 
struggling to keep back her tears and striving to be 
cheerful for his sake. 

“ But I do not sorrow for myself only, as great as the 
reason is. But for you. It has been so unfortunate 
that we ever met. Had we not, your fate would not 
have been blended with mine, and you would not have 
been dragged into so unpleasant a notoriety — nor have 
been a widow before you were wed.” 

“ How can you be so cruel !” cried Marion, overcome 
by the violence of her emotion. “ Unfortunate that we 
ever met ! I bless the moment we first saw each other ; 
I bless the moment you told me of your love for me ; I 
bless every moment that has passed since that time, 
since every one has given me the assurance of your 
love.” 

Frank shook his head sadly. 

“It is the warmth of your affection, stirred by my 
own gloomy forebodings, which makes you say so — 
which makes you forget what will follow. My untimely 


i6o 


ON THE RACK. 


and disgraceful end will cling to you. The world is 
cruel. Your story will be told in a hundred, nay, a 
thousand homes, and you will be pointed out as having 
been associated with me. There will be impertinent and 
hollow sympathy — and your life will be ruined — your 
future clouded.” 

“ Stop ! Stop ! ” cried Marion. “ I will listen to none 
of this. What am I that you should consider me at such 
a time ? Is it you who should bewail our meeting ? No, 
no. It is me. I am the cause of all this trouble. It 
was because I existed and you loved me, that Clarence 
Fellows visited his enmity on you. It was because he 
desired to be revenged upon me, for giving my love to 
you, that he tried to injure me and brought you into 
that complication. It was because you sought to defend 
and revenge me, that suspicion tended to you. There is 
not a step in this matter, not a fact bearing against you, 
that I am not the cause of and associated with. If you 
are to suffer death, I should. Was our meeting unfor- 
tunate, then, it is I who should say so — unfortunate for 
you. I should be the one to regret. I have brought 
you into trouble, you whom I love better than life itself. 
I cannot change the past, but I can love you more de- 
votedly than ever because of the wrongs I have done you.” 

It was now Frank’s duty to soothe and to chide. 

“ My dear Marion, you must not talk so. You are un- 
just to yourself and thus unjust to me.” 

“ Then why attempt to blame yourself ! If I am to be 
pitied for the association of my name with yours in this 
sad affair, how much more are you to be pitied, since all 
these events flow from our having met and loved. You 
have done nothing to bring about this sad happening. 
I did. I loved you and attracted you, tried to attract 
you. I confess it — deliberately tried to attract you.” 


LIGHTS AND SHADOWS. 


161 

Exaggerated as her unselfishness was, Frank was 
deeply moved by it. With quivering lips, he said : 

“We must not talk like this. I regret the untoward 
trend of fate. Neither of us is responsible for it. We 
are in the hands of a power we can neither influence nor 
direct. Why it should move as it does is inscrutable. I 
regret it for myself and regret it for the influence it must 
have on your young life, so full of promise as it was. 
Had I been stricken down and died, it would have been 
regrettable, but to die in this way — this is what will be so 
bad for you.” 

“You will not die. You cannot,” cried Marion. 
“ Our lives will be happy yet. There is only a cloud 
over us, which for a time darkens the way. But as there 
is a Merciful Being in heaven, who is just and who 
guards the unfortunate, the bright sun will burst through 
it ! I feel it ! I know it ! I am not anxious as to the 
result. That will be as we want it. I am anxious only 
as to the ordeal through which you will have to pass next 
week — anxious as to the influence all these harrowing 
occurrences will have upon your sunny nature. You 
will not die ; you will be proven innocent. But if these 
things are to change your nature, embitter you against 
the world, destroy your faith in your mother’s teachings 
and render you gloomy and misanthropic — all of which 
I fear — then indeed have I a right to be anxious. But 
you will go free ! ” 

Frank regarded her face, glorified by the sublime faith 
she manifested, with loving admiration. Before he could 
reply, a servant brought a card to Marion. 

“Mr. Bryan!” she exclaimed. “Show him here.” 
Then she added as she handed the card to Frank. 
“ Something new in the case. He is a devoted friend 
and has been a great comfort to me.” 


162 


ON THE EACH. 


Tom was ushered in, and after his salutation he said 
to Frank : 

“I imagined you were here, so I followed/' 

“And very glad we are you did,” said Marion. “ I 
am especially. Frank is morbid to-night. There is no 
sunlight anywhere. Everything is dark and forbidding. 
He anticipates the worst, and I know you think the con- 
trary.” 

All this was said with a gayety so marked as to ap- 
pear forced to Tom, and he quickly penetrated her pur- 
pose. So he replied lightly : 

“ Dark, is it ? Are you going to throw your hands up 
— the sponge — in the classic vernacular of the ring? ” 

“ No ; I shall fight to the last.” 

“ Have you told him of that discovery we made this 
afternoon ? ” 

“Yes ; and in his opinion it is nothing.” 

“ Why, man, it is a great point. Braham is delighted 
with it. I have just left him. They have got a whole 
lot of medical men to bolster Elwell’s theory.” 

“ If it is, I owe it to you.” 

“ Of course you do, and a whole lot of other things — 
especially the last find.” 

“And that is what?” asked Marion, the blood coming 
to her cheeks and hope shining brightly in her eyes. 

“ I ran against the coachman who drove you, Miss 
Standish, to Twenty-seventh Street, and he told me that 
he saw Mr. Pemberton walking up Fifth Avenue after 
you dismissed him near Forty-third Street.” 

“Oh, that is a gain,” she cried delightedly, “but why 
didn’t he tell us of this when we saw him that day?” 

“Because we didn’t ask him; but principally because 
he had a reason for concealing it. After you dismissed 
him, he met his own ‘ biddicum,’ and took her home in 


LIGHTS AND SHADOWS. 1 63 

the coach, a fact he does not wish the stable to know. 
He was returning when he met Pemberton.” 

“ It would have been more to the point if he had seen 
me in Broadway near Seventeenth Street,” said Frank. 

“Hang it, man,” cried Tom irritably, “ you’re incor- 
rigible. It will prove one part of your statement and 
give credence to the whole of it. See here ! have you 
entered into a conspiracy with yourself to beat us all? 
I begin to think you’re going to play the traitor and 
throw us all over. What have you got against us?” 

“ Don’t think me ungrateful, Bryan,” said Pemberton 
earnestly. “ I am not. I wish it was in my power to 
make you feel how deeply thankful I am. Everything 
that has been done for me up to this hour has been 
done by you. And there is another thing I want to 
thank you for, and that is the kindness which has 
prompted you to hasten to Miss Standish to inform her 
of all that is new and good in the case.” 

“Oh, pshaw! I pleased myself in that,” said Tom 
brusquely. “ Besides, we’re co-laborers. You don’t 
know, perhaps, that in this very room, on that very table, 
on stationery furnished by Standish pire, together we 
wrote your love story and the Twenty-seventh Street 
episode.” 

Frank looked upon Marion with amazement and 
said : 

“ You ! Marion ! ” 

“There!” she cried pettishly, “Mr. Bryan, you have 
betrayed me. I am not proud of my authorship — yes, I 
am. It was done in a good cause.” 

“So it was,” said Tom, “and a rattling good article it 
was, too. It told, let me tell you, and its effect will be 
felt on the trial. But now as to the immediate reason of 
my call. I learned this afternoon that you are being 


164 


ON THE RACK. 


shadowed everywhere you go. I have hastened to warn 
you.” 

“ Shadowed!” exclaimed Marion, not understanding 
the term. 

“ Followed by a detective every step he takes, and re- 
ports of his movements made to the department.” 

“ This is infamous,” she cried indignantly. 

“ Perhaps,” said Tom. “But it cannot be helped or 
avoided. But you should know it, Mr. Pemberton, and 
you should go nowhere, see no one, and say nothing you 
do not want to go immediately to the prosecution. I 
am quite certain.no harm has come of it yet.” 

“ Why, what can be the purpose of it ? ” asked Marion, 
greatly alarmed. 

“ There is some difference of opinion as to that. Lowe 
thinks that they hope to learn something which they can 
use on the trial.” 

“ It is as I have said,” replied Frank. “ It does seem 
as if they pursued me with malignity.” 

“ I disagree with Lowe,” said Tom ; “ for I have learned 
that the man was put on you the day they learned the story 
of the T wenty-seventh Street plot. I argue from that they 
convinced themselves of the truth of their theories and 
feared you would skip.” 

“Skip ! ” exclaimed Marion, “why should he skip be- 
cause of that ?” 

Tom laughed as he begged her pardon for his slang, 
and added : 

“ I should have said run away — leave the town,” 
Then turning to Frank, he said : “ I don’t think, under 
the circumstances, you ought to go anywhere without a 
friend. Then you will always have a witness. I have 
come for you this evening to go home with you.” 


“ BUCKY ” MALLON. 165 

“Well, then,” said Frank, rising, “ as the hour is late, 
we’ll go now.” 

Tom discreetly went into the hall. 


CHAPTER XIX. 

“BUCKY” MALLON. 

T WO or three days passed and no incident of moment 
occurred until Tom was visited by the “tough” 
young man, who had stopped him in Seventeenth Street. 

“ Ye didn’t go fur to see ‘Bucky’ Mallon,” he said, 
with that peculiar lowering of the shoulders and protru- 
sion of the chin which is characteristic of the breed. 

“ No,” replied Tom indifferently. “ I’ve been busy.” 
“ Well, he’s sint me agin to you to tell you it’s sumpen 
important for yez to know, more’n it is for him to tell.” 

Tom eyed his visitor curiously and thoughtfully. He 
was not unknown to the criminal classes, as he well 
knew, and was invested with an importance in their 
eyes he did not assume for himself. During the years 
he had served on the Sol, he had brought more than 
one of them to justice, and had in one or two in- 
stances, in order to serve ends he had in view, interfered 
in behalf of others, until he was credited with an influ- 
ence, which, if he did possess, he was slow to exert. 
Since he was frequently appealed to for assistance, he 
thought in this instance Mallon was trying to secure his 
aid in an effort at release, by offering to tell of some 
crime committed by his companions.” 

“ What is the nature of his business with me ? ” asked 
the young man. 


1 66 


ON THE EACH. 


“ Blessed if I know,” replied the “ tough.” “ He wants 
fur to see you bad, an’ he keeps me a running after 
yez. He don’t tell me wot it is.” 

“ I am a very busy man just now,” said Tom, “but I 
expect to get to the Tombs during the day, and I will go 
to him when I do.” 

This conversation had taken place in the office of the 
Sol. The “ tough ” young man was hardly gone, when 
the managing editor called Tom into his room. 

“The Pemberton trial goes on Tuesday, Tom,” he 
said. “ Do you want to take charge of it ?” 

“ No ; I don’t want to be bound down to it. I should 
like to do the free lance. I will give you copy, and of a 
kind that won’t interfere with the other man’s work.” 

“ All right,” replied Tompkins. “ The chief has given 
orders that you are to, have your way in this case. It’s 
none of my funeral, but it seems to me that between you 
and the chief, you’re making a fool of the paper.” 

“ In what way ? ” 

“ Pemberton is guilty of the shooting. There is no 
doubt of that in my mind — you and the chief to the con- 
trary notwithstanding. But mark you, I don’t say I am 
not in sympathy with him. If ever a man was justified 
in killing another one, Pemberton was in killing Fellows. 
To my mind the defense has made a great mistake. 
They should have admitted the shooting and urged great 
provocation and justification. If they do not clear 
Pemberton entirely, they will get him off with a short 
sentence.” 

“ You’re mistaken, Mr. Tompkins. Pemberton did 
not shoot Fellows, and he will permit no other defense. 
I acknowledge the fact that circumstances go to the 
proof he did. We all recognize this — all who know the 
case. Lowe and Braham were more than disposed to take 


“ BUCKY « MALLOtf. 167 

your view of it, as the easiest way out of the difficulty, 
but Pemberton would not listen to it for a moment.” 

“ Well,” said the managing editor, “ I was not con- 
sulted as to the policy of the paper on this case. You 
and the old man settled it between you in the beginning. 
You played it rather sharp there, Master Tom, but I am 
afraid you have got the paper into the ditch, and that 
your man will be convicted.” 

Tom was afraid of that himself at the bottom. And 
he felt apprehensive as to the consequences, in the loss 
of confidence in his judgment. But he reflected that 
matters would not be any the worse by reason of his 
clinging to his course now. So he contented himself 
with saying : 

“ I have never yet misled the paper, and I am not go- 
ing to do it now.” 

“ I hope not. I want you to succeed, but I fear 
failure.” 

“ The old man took failure into consideration before 
the policy was determined upon. But it will come out 
all right. Who will you put on the work ? ” 

“ Norman, if you don’t want it.” 

“ No, I don’t ; Norman is a good man.” 

This was satisfactory to Tom. The man to be detailed 
was his friend and already prejudiced in Frank’s favor. 
The color would still be for Frank’s innocence. 

It was now the Saturday before the trial. Frank had 
so arranged all the matters he had in hand that his suc- 
cessor could take up the work where he left it. In the 
afternoon of that day he said to Mr. Atkins, one of the 
partners of the house : 

“ I have cleared up everything on my desk. No letters 
remain unanswered, and everything I have had in charge 
has been brought to a conclusion. Whoever succeeds 


1 68 


ON THE RACK. 


me will find he can take up the work and go forward, 
not backward.” 

“ Succeeds you,” laughed Mr. Atkins, who was a firm 
believer in the idea of Frank’s acquittal. “ You talk as 
if you were going away for a long time. How long do 
you suppose this trial will last ? ” 

“ I do not know, I’m sure.” 

Frank realized by these words of his partner that he 
had become ingrained with the idea that the worst was 
to occur — that this idea tinged and influenced his speech 
and actions. He made no further reply than that, at all 
events, he would not be there again for a week. 

At this moment Tom Bryan came briskly into the 
store. Finding Frank, he asked him abruptly : 

“ Do you recollect the watch and chain Fellows wore 
when he was alive ? ” 

“ Oh, yes ; I’ve seen it a hundred times.” 

“ Do you suppose any one else here would know it, or 
recollect it.” 

“ Yes, I imagine so. I should think Baynum, his 
assistant — the one who succeeded him in charge of his 
department — would.” 

“ Good ! ” cried Tom. “ Take me to him at once.” 

To find the meaning of this brief conversation, it is 
necessary to go back a few hours. 

Twice importuned to go to “ Bucky ” Mallon in the 
Tombs, where he was confined for stabbing a man, Tom 
concluded he would, somewhat upon the principle that 
no stone should be left unturned. 

When conducted to the door of the cell occupied by 
“ Bucky ” Mallon, Tom found that person unfeignedly 
glad to see him. 

“ Look a here, Misser Bryan, I’ve got inter dis scrape 
and I wants to git out ov it.” 


“ BUCK Y" MALLON . 169 

“ No doubt of that,” replied Tom, disgusted ; “most 
people do when they get into a scrape.” 

“ It ain’t a square deal. I’ve done lots o’ things dey 
might have pinched me on if dey’d a knowd ’em. But 
dey nipped me on sumpen dat ain’t right. Dis bloke I 
cut wos wild wid rum. Dere hadn’t been anything ’twixt 
us, but he come up and fetched me a whack on de back 
of de neck and drawd a gun on me. I didn’t know 
he wos crazy wid de jams ; but I taut it was all up wid 
meself, and I pulled out me knife and cut him, when a 
fly cop lit on me and tuk me in. De wurst against me 
is dat I had concealed wepons on me person.” 

“ Is this what you want to see me about ?” asked Tom, 
much -annoyed that he had been called to hear such a 
story, convinced, as he was, that if it were true and the 
man were punished, he deserved it for other crimes, if 
not for this one.” 

“ Yes,” replied the young rough, “ for I know ye kin 
fix it right, if yer want to. An’ I kin give yer a good 
reason for it.” 

“What is that ?” asked Tom, making up his mind to 
leave the fellow at once. 

“Ye know de feller as wos plugged on New Year’s 
Eve — Fellers ?” 

Now Tom was all attention. 

“ Yes, I knew him,” he replied. 

“ You’re a frind of de feller as is charged wid de 
plugging, ain’t yer ? ” 

“ Yes ; I am — a great friend.” 

“ Yes, I hurd so. I know sumpen dat you might want 
fur to know. See ? ” 

“ What is it, my man?” asked Tom, so eagerly as to 
betray how anxious he was to learn anything upon that 
subject. 


170 


ON THE RACK. 


“Well,” said the other slowly and with a look of in- 
finite cunning, “ I ain’t givin’ sumpen fur notin’.” 

“ What do you want ? ” asked Tom. 

“Yer help and inflooence fur to get me outer dis 
scrape.” 

Tom was a little taken back at this request. As 
matters stood, such influence as he might, under or- 
dinary circumstances, be able to exert with the dis- 
trict attorney, was well nigh ruined by the course which 
he had pursued with reference to the Fellows matter. 
He had overreached that official and embarrassed him, 
and had even threatened him in his paper. To go to him 
for a favor, when the payment to him was something 
that might further embarrass the district attorney, was 
more than he dared to do. Yet so desperate was the 
defense that it would not do to let any chance of in- 
formation pass him. He was thoughtful for a moment 
or two : 

“You think I can arrange your matter with the dis- 
trict attorney?” he said to Mallon, who was peering 
through the bars of his door most eagerly. 

“ I know yer kin if yer want ter,” replied the ruffian 
promptly. 

“I don’t know whether I can or not,” replied Tom. 
“ If the point you have to give me is of very great impor- 
tance, perhaps I can. But, if I can’t do anything with 
the district attorney, I may be able to do something for 
you just as good, perhaps better. But that is, only, if 
your point is a good one — a valuable one for us.” 

“ What is dat ye kin do ? ” Mallon was keen and eager. 

“ I can get the two best lawyers in New York City to 
defend you.” 

“ Who are dem ? ” asked the tough, casting upon Tom 
a suspicious glance. 


“ BUCK Y” MALLON. 


171 

“ Lowe and Braham.” 

“The h ye say ! ” 

The eyes of the ruffian sparkled with delight. To ob- 
tain the services of Lowe was the ambition of any one of 
the criminals of which Mallon was the type. The confi- 
dence reposed in the great criminal lawyer to bring his 
client off free from conviction was implicit. To know 
that a criminal in trouble was defended by Lowe, was as- 
surance to his associates that he would be among them 
again in a few days. Lowe was credited with abnormal 
powers, and it was widely believed that no judge dared 
oppose him. Besides all this, to have been defended by 
Lowe was a distinction among the ruffians, lifting the 
man so defended into the highest rank among them. 

Tom knew all this and the effect his promise would 
have upon the young rascal. 

Though the eyes of Mallon danced with delight, yet he 
was cautious and shrewd. 

“Well, den,” he said, “you bring Misser Lowe here 
and I’ll give up.” 

“I can’t do that now,” said Tom firmly. “ He is too 
busy at present. You know I am a man of my word. 
What I say I’ll do, that I’ll do.” 

“ I know dat,” said the rough. 

“ You must, therefore, if you want Lowe with you, tell 
me what you have,” replied Tom. “ If you don’t, I’ll 
leave you and you won’t have Lowe.” 

It had become a contest of wits. Tom did not want 
the information any more badly than Mallon wanted the 
services of Lowe. 

The ruffian pondered a moment or two and then 
yielded. 

“Well,” he said, “if I’ve got ter, I’ve got ter. Say, 
dat night — New Year’s Eve — some fellers of de gang 


172 


ON THE RACK. 


caught de man dat wos plugged up in Twentieth Street 
afterward, in Market, just by Chatham Square.” 

“Caught Clarence Fellows in Market Street?” ex- 
claimed Tom in great surprise. 

“ De same honey ! ” 

“What could he have been doing way down there?” 

“ I dunno wot he wos doin’ down dere, but I know wot 
he wos a doin’ wen he wos dere. He wos a settin’ on de 
curb stone, wid his back agin a lamp-post, a star-gazin’. 
Well, anyhow, de lads lifted his ticker an’ de money he 
hed on him — some of it, not all, for de papers sed dat wen 
he wos plugged he hed some more on him.” 

“ What time was this ? ” 

“ Oh, along about midnight.” 

“ Were you among them — the gang ? ” 

“ Oh, no yer don’t,” said Mallon, with a world of cun- 
ning in his eyes. “ I ain’t a crimernatin’ meself. But 
I’m givin’ it ter yer straight.” 

“ What is the meaning of your talk ? ” demanded Tom. 
“ Do you mean that the gang followed him up to Twen- 
tieth Street and shot him there ? ” 

“ Naw ! When dey lifted his mon an’ his ticker, dey 
got away as quick as dey could. But de nex’ day when 
dey hurd dat he’d been plugged up in Twentieth Street, 
dey didn’t dare show it.” 

Tom started violently. A thought had entered his 
mind. He seemed to recollect that when Clarence was 
brought to the station-house, a watch and chain was 
found upon him, and that it had been spoken of as 
an item in the sum going to prove that robbery had not 
been back of the shooting. Fired with this idea, he was 
anxious to get away to confirm it. Concealing his 
anxiety, however, he said : 

“ I don’t see what there is in all this to help us. The 


“ BUCKY" MALLOW. 


173 


man was robbed in Market Street. You say the gang 
hadn’t anything to do with that. Well, how does this 
help us ? ” 

As disappointed as the young ruffian evidently was, 
nevertheless, he did see that Tom saw something in it. 

“Well,” he replied sulkily, “dey didn’t show de ticker 
till a week ago. An’ I know where it is.” 

“Where is it?” 

“Say, are ye goin’ to giv de man away, if I tell you?” 

“No; I’ll give nothing away, but I’d like to get a 
sight of that watch and chain.” 

“Say, if I tell ye, will ye git Misser Lowe fur me?” 

“See here, Mallon, is this all you’ve got to tell me?” 

The young fellow hesitated a long time before he re- 
plied. Tom watched him narrowly. 

“ Yes,” he finally said. “ I’ve bin tryin’ to find sumpen 
more, but I can’t.” 

“I shall deal squarely with you,” said Tom. “ There 
isn’t much in what you’ve told me. There is just this — 
if I can produce this watch I can trouble the other side 
with it. That’s all. If you give me the name of the 
‘fence’ who has that watch, I give you my word he shall 
not be troubled about it.” 

“Nor de gang, eder?” 

“Nor the gang, either.” 

“And you’ll get Lowe for me?” 

“If we find the watch and it is as you represent — Mr. 
Fellows’s watch — I’ll get Lowe for you.” 

“ Dat’s enuff. You’re a gentleman. You go up to 
‘Mose’ Mandelbaum in Rivington Street. I know he’s 
got it yet.” 

“All right,” replied Tom. “You’ll hear from me 
shortly.” 

As he hurried down the gallery, Mallon followed him 


174 


ON THE RACK. 


with his eyes as far as he could, and turning away he 
muttered, as he sat himself on his cot : 

“I guess he’ll do it. But I didn’t give everything up. 
If dey don’t come, I’ve got sumpen back as will bring 
sumpen, dead sure. Tain’t worth while payin’ -all de 
rope out to onct. De best is back.” 


CHAPTER XX. 

BRIGHTENING SKIES. 

W HEN Tom left the Tombs, he stopped outside the 
entrance to consider what course he should pursue 
in view of this information. 

He could not measure its value. If a watch and chain 
had been found on Clarence when he was taken to the 
station-house, how could his watch have been stolen be- 
fore he was shot ? And if the watch and chain had been 
stolen before midnight, how could Clarence have had it 
subsequent to that hour ? 

There was something very mysterious in this. Had 
Mallon merely invented this story to enlist his services ? 
But, he thought, Mallon had not asked for belief upon his 
mere assertion. He had told where the watch was, so 
that it could be identified. 

And then, what was Clarence doing so far down town, 
in that neighborhood, at such an hour? Not only was it 
strange that he, whose habits were so regular and method- 
ical, should have wandered out of his accustomed paths, 
but that when there he should have seated himself on the 
curb-stone. 

Could it have been possible that after his altercation 


BRIGHTENING SKIES. 


*75 


with Frank he had taken to drinking ? While it was pos- 
sible, it was not probable. Because Clarence was abstemi- 
ous, not as a matter of habit, but as a matter of principle. 

There were a number of contradictions in the story he 
had been told which he could not reconcile. 

His first impulse was to go at once to Mandelbaum’s, 
but upon consideration he thought that even if he went 
there he could not identify the watch, and the only effect 
of his visit would be to alarm the old receiver of stolen 
goods, and thus make it impossible to ever obtain it. 

The result of his cogitations was, that he determined, 
as a first step, to consult with Lowe. 

That lawyer’s office was not far distant, and in a few 
minutes he was in the office. 

A clerk informed him that Lowe was preparing himself 
for the trial on Tuesday, and had given strict orders that 
he was not to be disturbed. 

Tom, however, insisted that his presence must be an- 
nounced to the lawyer, with the message that he had a 
matter of great importance to communicate. 

The clerk went to Lowe reluctantly, but came out 
beaming with the word that Tom must go to the lawyer 
at once. 

Tom recited his conversation with Mallon, closing his 
tale with the expression of the doubt as to whether or 
not a watch and chain had been found upon Clarence. 
The lawyer took up a paper from his desk and scanned it 
rapidly. 

“Yes, Tom,” he said, as he laid the paper down, “a 
watch and chain are among the articles taken from Clar- 
ence’s clothes on that night. This information is of the 
very gravest importance. If this fellow Mallon has not 
been telling an untruth, and the watch can be identified, 
we have got a point which may have almost any result, 


i;6 


ON THE RACK . 


For instance, we may set up the fact that it is a very 
grave doubt whether the man shot was Clarence, for, if 
he was in Market Street at midnight, when his watch and 
chain were stolen from him, he could not have had them 
an hour later, when he was shot ? Again, if he was in 
Market Street at midnight, it is not probable that he 
was in Twentieth Street at one?” 

“ I don’t know about that, he could have gotten there 
within the hour,” said Tom. 

“ I think not,” said Lowe, “ especially when it is known 
that he was in the Twenty-first Street house some time 
before that, changed his clothes, and went out again. 
Now, he must have gone somewhere, to be coming back 
near one.” 

“ Changing his clothes ? ” cried Tom. “ By Heavens, 
there is confirmation of his being in Market Street. 
Mallon says he was sitting on the curb-stone, with his 
back against a lamp-post, star-gazing. A boarder says 
that she saw a man she supposed to be Fellows creeping 
into the house, about half past eleven, endeavoring, from 
his manner, to escape observation. And you know the 
police found a suit of soiled clothes scattered about the 
apartment. By Heaven, Lowe, the story fits in ! ” 

“ Except as to time. But here is another supposition. 
Fellows is seen in Market Street just out of Chatham 
Square, seated on the curb-stone, his feet presumably in 
the gutter, with his back against a lamp-post, star-gazing, 
your friend Mallon puts it, but which means that he was 
dazed, stupid, or unconscious ; at all events, he was in 
such a condition that it attracted the attention of some 
thieves, who robbed him with ease. What was he — 
drunk, drugged, or demented ? An hour later, White- 
head sees a man coming up Fourth Avenue whose 
manner and mutterings attracted his attention. What 


BRIGHTENING SKIES. 


177 


was he — drunk, drugged, or demented ? He hears a 
noise which, if it were not so muffled, he would have said 
it was a pistol shot a few moments after he passes. The 
doctor who examines the body when first found says the 
muzzle of the barrel was pressed close to the temple. 
This would account for the muffled sound ; and this 
same doctor thinks the wound was self-inflicted. By 
Heavens, our suicide theory grows ! ” 

“ It seems to me you’ve got too many theories from 
this information,” said Tom. 

“It must be carefully thought over. I must have a 
consultation with Braham. But it is little use for us to 
consider these questions until we know whether Mallon 
is telling the truth. We must find whether the watch he 
refers to is Fellows’s watch. But I am afraid that all the 
watches Mandelbaum has had have found their way into 
the smelting pot before this.” 

The suggestion startled Tom. 

“ Mallon was emphatic in his statement that Mandel- 
baum had it yet, and that he knew it. However, even if 
it is so, we can determine whether or not the watch taken 
from his clothes was the one Clarence carried in 
life.” 

“ Yes, but only on the trial — because, if we were to 
now make inquiries, it would be to give the other side a 
hint. To have this point effective we must spring it as 
a surprise. Now, you go to Evans, Whitney & Co. and 
see if you can find any one who can recollect and 
identify the watch Fellows habitually carried. If you 
can find two, so much the better, and bring them here at 
once. Then we’ll go to the scamp Mandelbaum. I’ll 
make him show up. The worst of it all is that if we find 
Fellows’s watch I’ll have to defend this rascal Mallon. 
But you did right, Tom. I’ll make your word good.” 


178 


ON THE RACK. 


This was the meaning of Tom’s call upon Frank at the 
store. 

When Frank understood Tom’s purpose, they sought 
Baynum, who, when asked if he recollected the watch car- 
ried by Clarence, said he did perfectly well, and would 
recognize it the moment he saw it, and the chain as well. 
He had often admired it, and he was ready to swear that 
on the very last day Fellows was in the store he had 
worn it ; that is to say, the day upon the night of which 
Clarence had been shot, for, after Mr. Fellows had 
turned over the department to him on the last day of the 
year in the afternoon, in presence of all the clerks, he 
had taken out his watch to look at the time, and he, 
Baynum, had laughingly remarked that he wished that 
in leaving the department he had also left his watch. 

When Tom asked if any one else was familiar with the 
watch, another clerk was found who said he could easily 
identify it, since it had been in his possession more than 
once, in carrying it to and from the watchmaker Mr. 
Fellows trusted to repair it ; moreover, on the last occa- 
sion of carrying it for repairs, he had taken the number 
of it, and had it then in his memorandum book. 

This was conclusive testimony. At Tom’s request 
they were willing to go with him to Lowe. Reaching 
there, the four set out for Mandelbaum’s place in Riving- 
ton Street. This receiver of stolen goods was, ostensi- 
bly, a dealer in second-hand goods of every description. 

The man himself was in the store when the four 
entered. He recognized Lowe at once and was evi- 
dently much disturbed on seeing him. He eyed the 
others suspiciously. 

“ See here, Moses,” said Lowe imperatively, taking him 
aside, “ I want to see you a moment.” 

“ I’m alvays glat to dalk mit you, Mr. Lowe.” 


BRIGHTENING SKIES. 1 79 

“My business will be soon over, Moses. I want to 
buy a watch.” 

The dark eyes of the thief shot a keen, penetrating 
glance at the lawyer, but he replied promptly. 

“ So hellup me gracious, I haf no vatches to sell, Mister 
Lowe,” said the old man. “ I haf noding but dish von 
— a poor dicker, in mine bocket.” 

“ So hellup me gracious you have,” sternly said Lowe. 
“ Now attend to me, Moses. I want no nonsense. If 
you do what I want you to do, I will not harm you or 
bring you into any trouble. But if you don’t show me 
every watch you’ve got in the house, I’ll put you into 
the jug as sure as my name is Lowe. I know all about 
that Helm burglary — know who put up the job — who 
furnished the stuff for it — and what became of the swag. 
You understand what that means to you. Now, I’m look- 
ing for a certain watch and chain ; if we find it here we’ll 
pay you what you gave for it, take it away, and say noth- 
ing more about it. The man from whom it was taken is 
dead.” 

Trembling in every limb, so frightened was he, yet, 
nevertheless reassured by Lowe’s promise, he said : 

“Veil, Mister Lowe, you haf such nice vays I can 
refuss you nodings.” 

“ Never mind my nice ways, Moses,” said Lowe, re- 
turning to his friends, “ get out your watches at once. 
You’ll be better rid of the watch I want than to have it 
in your possession.” 

“Veil, Mister Lowe, you mit your friendts by ter nex 
room kommen, and I vill bring some vatches, vich I 
buyed mit a friendt of mine, vot vas moven avay and 
vanted der monish.” 

“ Trot them out there, and hurry,” said Lowe. “ This 
way, Tom ! ” 


180 ON THE RACK. 

The old man preceded them into a rear apartment, 
taking care to call a dark-eyed daughter of Judah to 
occupy the room with them, while he disappeared into 
another room. 

He reappeared presently, bearing two trays heaped up 
with watches of all descriptions, which he laid upon a 
table in the center of the room. 

He emptied one tray and Clarence’s watch was not 
among them. He had taken the third watch out of the 
second tray, when Baynum suddenly leaned forward, 
and snatching it from the old man’s hands so rudely as 
to startle him, exclaimed : 

“ This is it ! ” 

The other clerk came forward and identified it. The 
number of the watch was found to compare with the one 
in his memorandum book. The chain was identified as 
well. 

“This watch,” said Baynum, “Mr. Fellows wore on 
the last day of the year.” 

“ Mine Got,” exclaimed the old man in alarm, as he 
caught the name of Fellows. 

“ How much do you want for this watch, Moses ? ” 
asked Lowe. 

“ I vill gif you dot for shoost vot it cost me, mitout 
one shent of broffit. I gif my friendt vot move avay von 
hundert und a qvarter.” 

“I’ll give twenty-five dollars,” said Lowe. “And 
that’s at least ten dollars more than you gave for it.” 

u Oh, mine gracious ! So hellup me ” 

Lowe, who had taken out twenty-five dollars and had 
laid them on the table, interrupted : 

“ Take your choice. Either take that for the watch or 
go to jail.” 

His imperative manner and threatening tone fright- 


BRIGHTENING SKIES. 


181 

ened the old man, yet he struggled with himself before 
he could permit the watch to go out of his hands so 
cheaply. But a second glance at Lowe, sitting* before 
him stern and uncompromising, decided him. 

“ You haf such nice vays I can refuss you nodings.” 

As he did so, he took the chain from the watch and 
handed it to Lowe, taking up the money. 

Lowe looked at him surprised, and said : 

“ Where’s the chain ? ” 

“ You say you gif me dwenty-fife tollar vor de vatch. 
You say nodings about de shain. I lef it to dese shen- 
dlemens.” 

Lowe laughed aloud, saying : 

“ The Jew bests me.” 

Then, tossing a five dollar bill to Mandelbaum, said : 

“ Give me the chain, and no more tricks.” 

Mandelbaum handed it to him, and the four men rose 
to leave. Mandelbaum sidled up beside Lowe, who was 
behind the rest, and said : 

“ I haf your vord, no droubles comes of dis.” 

“ None whatever, Moses.” 

“ Mister Lowe,” whispered the old thief. “ I haf some 
very fine timondts. Eff your friendts vant to buy, I gif 
you ten per shent on vat dey pay.” 

“ No, no, Moses,” laughed Lowe. “ We’ve done 
enough trading to-day.” 

“Oh, by George ! ” cried Tom, who had overheard the 
whisper, “ that’s too good. He recognizes a kindred 
spirit. That’s a bottle on you.” 

And a bottle was disposed of in celebration of their 
success before they parted. 


182 


ON THE RACK. 


CHAPTER XXI. 

THE TRIAL BEGINS. 

r PUESDAY, the fateful day, came. When Frank, at- 
1 tended by the younger Mr. Whitney, arrived at the 
court room, it was well filled in every part allotted to 
the public. He was carefully attired, under the instruc- 
tions of Lowe, who had said : “ He must be dressed as 

a gentleman accustomed to the elegancies of life; noth- 
ing flashy or loud — no effort at elegance, but so correct 
as to tell.” 

That the trial was exciting wide attention was mani- 
fested in the unusual preparations for the accommodation 
of the representatives of the press, so numerous had been 
the application for seats for the reporters. 

Within the spate reserved for the members of the bar 
few seats were occupied, for the lawyers knew only too 
well that the first day’s proceedings would be devoid of 
interest. 

Occupying one of the chairs in this space, and, there- 
fore, somewhat conspicuous, was Marion, with her 
father. 

When Frank turned from greeting his counsel, who 
had made room for him beside them, Marion’s face was 
the first he saw. 

An expression of surprise passed over his own, but 
whether it was pleased or displeased surprise, Marion, 
timidly watching him, could not determine. 

On the night previous, he had borne a message from 
Lowe that it was not necessary for her to appear in 
court until they sent for her. But her interest in the 
proceedings was too great to permit her to stay away. 


THE TRIAL BEGINS. 183 

Her father, appreciating this, offered no objection, but 
determined to be present with her. 

Under the impulse of the moment, Frank made a 
step or two toward her, but stopped as it occurred to 
him that he ought to escape observation as much as 
possible. But Marion had risen and was advancing 
toward him. Therefore, he went to her and was greeted 
by her with affectionate sympathy ; deep, though re- 
pressed and undemonstrative. 

Her father rose also and shook hands with Frank 
warmly. 

“ The test has come, my boy,” said Colonel Standish 
kindly. “ But bear up bravely. Present a confident 
front. Everything will come out all right.” 

While Marion and Frank conversed, Colonel Standish 
talked with young Mr. Whitney. 

In a moment more they were joined by Mr. Evans and 
the elder Mr. Whitney, who had just entered, both of 
whom shook hands heartily with Frank. Mr. Evans, who 
was quite nervous and excited, sought to cover his 
agitation by assuming a jocularity he did not feel. 
But he said some funny things, which made them all 
laugh. 

The judge had not yet come to the bench, and as 
this group stood in the center of the room, it was con- 
spicuous. 

With that prescience of a crowd, which is not to be 
accounted for, Frank had been quickly picked out as the 
prisoner to be tried. The rumor rapidly passed through 
the room that the beautiful woman was Miss Standish — 
the one who was to marry Pemberton — whose love story 
had been told in the newspapers, and whose devotion to 
her lover in the hour of his trouble had won the heart 
of every lover in town. There was, therefore, a great 


184 


ON THE RACK. 


craning of necks to catch a glimpse of the beautiful girl 
standing there, so absorbed and so anxious for her lover 
as to be unaware that she was the focus for all eyes in 
the room. 

“She is a lovely girl,” said a young woman to her es- 
cort. 

! “Yes,” replied the man beside her, “she is a woman 
whose love is worth having. By heavens ! ” he added, 
as he saw Marion bend eyes full of love, deepened with 
solicitude, on Frank as he spoke, “by Heaven, he did 
right to kill the man who played that trick upon such a 
woman ! I glory in his nerve. He ought to have a vote 
of thanks for it. He is a gallant fellow and deserves her.” 

This exchange had taken place near the rail and was 
heard by Lowe, busy with his papers. He looked up to 
see what had caused the words, and perceived the group 
in the middle of the room. 

Moreover, he recognized both Mr. Evans and Mr. Whit- 
ney, each of whom had been subpoenaed by the prosecu- 
tion, standing in friendly relations to his client. 

Lowe never let a point escape him. Knowing that 
the panel from which the jury was to be chosen was in 
the room, he turned to Braham, and as he directed his 
attention to the group, he said : 

“ Come, let us make the most of this.” 

They both joined the group, greeting each one of it 
with ceremonious politeness, and giving to Marion a 
deference most impressive, thus again attracting the at- 
tention of everybody. They secured seats for Marion 
and her father near themselves, so as to bring her into 
close proximity to Frank. 

“ Smart fellows ! Smart fellows ! ” said the district 
attorney, sitting in the midst of his deputies and clerks, 
as he watched the enactment of this little drama. “ They 


THE TRIAL BEGINS. 


185 

are great masters of effect. This will be a great contest, 
boys. They will fight hard for the life of their man. It 
will be no child's play.” 

“A good point,” whispered Lowe to Braham, when 
they were seated again. “ Miss Standish must be here 
every day. Her very appearance wins sympathy for 
Pemberton.” 

“Yes ; her devotion to him will have a telling effect,” 
replied Braham. 

Tom Bryan now entered, went over to Frank, shook 
hands with him, bowed deferentially to Marion, was 
rewarded by a look of gratitude from her fine eyes, chat- 
ted a moment or two with Lowe and Braham, and then 
went over to speak with Norman at the press tables. 

At this moment there was a loud rapping and a loud 
cry of, “ Order in the court ! Hats off ! ” 

The judge entered from a side door, and ascended 
the steps leading to the bench, slowly and impressively. 
He was a large, portly man, with iron-gray hair standing 
upright, with smooth shaven face and lofty forehead. 
It was a strong, rugged face he presented as he calmly 
surveyed the room as he took his seat — a face which 
advertised the strict integrity of the man, while the 
square set of his jaw and straight line of his mouth pro- 
claimed his firmness and decision. Over all, however, 
beaming through gold-mounted spectacles, presided a 
pair of reposeful blue eyes. 

“ My ideal of a judge,” said Frank to Marion in a low 
voice. 

“ I could wish it had been Nagleson or Whitmarch,” 
said Lowe, who had overheard him. “ However, we’ll get 
impartial treatment, but we can play no tricks with him.” 

“ Neither can the honorable the district attorney, for 
the matter of that,” said Braham, 


ON THE RACK, 


1 86 

Mr. Braham and Mr. Whitney moved across the room 
and took seats behind Colonel Standish and Marion. 

The district attorney noting this, stood up and said to 
Braham with evident sarcasm : 

“ Are those two gentlemen witnesses for the defense 
or the prosecution ? ” 

Lowe retorted quickly and in a loud voice : 

“ If you know anything about your case, you ought to 
know who your witnesses are. These two gentlemen 
are friends and partners of our client, having firm faith 
in and knowledge of his innocence.” 

The judge cast a stern look upon them and waved his 
gavel threateningly. The district attorney sat down 
annoyed. 

“ First blood, Lowe,” whispered Braham. 

The spectators laughed softly, in sympathy with the 
retort. 

Two lawyers now claimed the attention of the court in 
an unimportant motion, which, by courtesy, they were 
permitted to do. 

The case of the People against Pemberton was called. 
There was a rustle of interested anticipation from the 
spectators. The preliminary formula usual at this stage 
was gone through with and the selection of a jury was 
begun. 

The first man was excused. He had formed an 
opinion from reading the papers, both as to the facts 
and to the act, and did not believe testimony could 
change it. 

This went on without variation until six talesmen were 
set aside. Then came one who thought he would reach 
a fair judgment. His mind was free from prejudice, he 
said ; he had read about the case in the public press, was 


THE TRIAL BEGINS. 187 

familiar as to its details, but had reached no positive 
conclusion. 

He probably would have been chosen if the district 
attorney had not asked this question : 

“ What paper do you habitually read ?” 

“ The Sol” was the answer. 

The district attorney challenged him peremptorily. 

Tom grinned broadly. It was testimony to the efficacy 
of his work. 

After this* the question was put to every one by the 
district attorney, and when they answered the Sol , were 
peremptorily challenged, until his list of challenges was 
sensibly diminished. 

As the time passed, no progress was made. Not a 
single juror had been secured. The defense had not 
made a single challenge. The talesman had either been 
challenged for cause or favor, or he had been challenged 
peremptorily by the prosecution. The defense had not 
made a single one. 

At the end of an hour and a half, Lowe dropped a note 
to Tom. 

“ I want to know,’' it ran, “ what the opinions of these 
men who have been challenged and excused are. Move 
around and see if you cannot find out.’' 

Tom went into the corridor. The work went on as 
monotonously as before. In half an hour his answer 
came to Lowe. He said : 

“ The most of these believe that Pemberton shot Fel- 
lows, but think he was justified. They would have voted 
for acquittal.” 

Lowe showed the note to Braham, who said : 

“ Then we will not use peremptory challenges, except 
where our suspicions are excited,” 


ON THE RACK. 


1 88 

But one episode relieved the monotony of the pro- 
ceedings. A man under examination, to Braham’s mind, 
displayed an eagerness to get upon the jury, and he 
also thought that the district attorney discovered an 
equal eagerness to have him. 

He therefore made the first peremptory challenge- 
The district attorney was evidently greatly annoyed. He 
said pettishly to Braham : 

“ What was the matter with that man ? He is intelli- 
gent, has formed no opinion, is of good character.” 

“ Do you want to run both sides of this case ? ” asked 
Lowe sharply. 

“ We always challenge where the prosecution is as 
anxious to get a man as a juror, as the man is to be a 
juror,” was Braham’s quiet reply. 

The district attorney reddened. As a matter of fact 
the man was a personal friend, and while he had con- 
fidence in the man’s integrity, still he thought that by 
reason of this friendship the man would be inclined 
toward his side. 

In the mean time, tired out by the monotony of the 
proceedings, the spectators had drifted away, determin- 
ing to come back when the trial really began. 

After three hours had been passed, that is to say, 
about one o’clock, the district attorney made a suggestion 
for recess for lunch. The proposition not being opposed, 
the court ordered one for an hour. 

But before leaving the bench he said : 

“But little, indeed, no progress has been made toward 
securing a jury up to this time. I warn counsel that they 
must not hope for delay in this. I propose the court 
shall sit until a jury is secured. If, when the usual hour 
for adjournment is reached, no more progress is made, I 
shall continue the sitting far into the night. Counsel 


THE TRIAL BEGINS. 189 

must not use this condition of affairs for the purposes of 
delay with any hopes of success.” 

“May it please your Honor,” said Braham, rising, 
“you will acquit the defense of any attempt at delay. 
We have exercised our right of peremptory challenge but 
once during this morning session, and have been ready 
to accept where the talesmen have been set aside by the 
other side.” . 

“ Yes,” said the judge dryly. “Public opinion seems 
to have been industriously influenced pending the 
trial.” 

“ Your Honor is quite right in his animadversion,” said 
Braham, in a tone of profound satisfaction. “ A reading 
of the public press every day this year will clearly prove 
your Honor’s position. With perhaps a single exception 
the press seems to have conspired to try and convict our 
client before we could get him into court. I do not en- 
deavor to ascertain wherein lies the cause of this extra- 
ordinary condition of affairs, as your Honor points out.” 

The district attorney turned squarely upon his antago- 
nist in surprised anger. And the judge, who saw his 
veiled rebuke to the defense most adroitly turned 
against the prosecution, could with difficulty repress the 
smile struggling to his lips. Its audacity pleased him, 
but he brought his gavel down with a whack, as he 
said : 

“ The counsel gives an interpretation to my words I 
had not intended. But as at the rate of progress we are 
now proceeding the present panel will be exhausted be- 
fore twelve men are secured, I will order a new one in 
readiness for to-morrow. The court will reassemble at 
two o’clock.” 

As he left the bench, the court room was emptied. 

Lowe grasped Braham’s hand and shook it warmly. 


190 


ON THE RACK. 


“ What a point for effect you made ! ” he exclaimed. 
“And it will do no harm. It tickled his Honor, for he 
could hardly keep a straight face.” 

The district attorney sauntered up. 

“ L'audace , Vaudace, toujours Vaudace ,” he said to Bra- 
ham. “If you only had as much law as audacity, eh, 
Braham ?” 

“ We can get along with little law, Mr. District Attor- 
ney,” replied Braham, as he tied up his papers and 
tossed them to a clerk, “ when we have truth and a good 
case. You, are in want of law, this time.” 

The whole party, including Mr. Evans and Whitney, 
went across the park for lunch. 

“ My dear young lady,” said Braham, who had maneu- 
vered to get beside Marion as they walked along. “ I 
don’t doubt but that our court proceedings are very dull 
for you.” 

“ Oh, not at all,” replied Marion heartily. “ I was in- 
tensely, painfully interested.” 

“No doubt, this morning — but you will tire of it.” 

“ No ; not until the end.” 

“ Do you intend, then, to come every day ? ” 

“ Every day.” 

“I suppose I ought to be content with that, but, lest 
you should not understand me, I will say that I am very 
anxious to have you there every day.” 

“What for?” asked Marion innocently. 

“ I will be very plain with you, Miss Standish, for I 
conceive you to be a superior young woman, who will 
understand some of the subtleties of our profession 
when pointed out. We are sometimes like the people 
on the stage ; we act, we produce effects. Well, then, 
the town is just now taken with a romance. It is your 
own— your love for Pemberton, its dramatic, nay, tragi- 


THE TRIAL BEGINS. 


191 

cal episodes, and your devotion to your lover in the time 
of his trouble. I have noticed that the effect of your 
presence beside Pemberton was very great this morning. 
I want that effect daily during the trial. To be effective, 
it must be natural. It should not be loudly, but deli- 
cately expressed — your devotion, I mean. It should be 
restrained but shown, covert but unmistakable. Every 
woman is a bit of an actress. Will you remember this?” 

“I will remember and will try,” she said, blushing 
deeply, and thus increasing her beauty in Braham’s 
eyes. Then she added, earnestly, “ I will do anything — 
everything to aid Mr. Pemberton. It was through his 
love for me that he has gotten into this trouble. I will 
not let false modesty or false delicacy influence me, any- 
way, at this critical time. Tell me what I am to do at 
any time and that I will do.” 

She lifted such earnest, honest eyes to Braham, and 
she was so sincere in her tone and manner, without the 
least pretense of affectation, that Mr. Braham felt his 
utterance rather choked. But he said warmly : 

“ My dear, any man ought to be willing to go through 
all dangers to win such love as yours. But there, there, 
don’t let us get sentimental. Don’t tell Mr. Pemberton 
what I’ve said to you. He is far too chivalrous for his 
own good. He would protest against it. And perhaps, 
if he knew our purpose, he would spoil its effect. We 
will keep it a secret, you and I.” 

By this time they had reached the restaurant. 

“ Where’s Tom Bryan?” asked Lowe, when they were 
seated. “I thought he was with us.” 

“ No ; I have not seen him since he sent you that note. 
I do want him, though, badly. I want him to make a 
point for us to-morrow morning.” 

“ So do I,” replied Lowe, “ and one that will tell. Bra- 


192 


ON THE RACK. 


ham,” he continued, “the audience was with us in sym- 
pathy to-day.” 

“ Every time.” 

“ Well, when we get into the real work we must have 
the room crowded. The wave of sympathy will tell 
upon the jury in the end.” 


CHAPTER XXII. 

THE FIRST DAY. 

( ^OLONEL STANDISH had invited Tom to join them 
j at lunch, but the journalist had been detained by an 
incident of some moment. 

While strolling in the corridor, he had been approached 
by the young ruffian who seemed to act as Mercury for 
the redoubtable “Bucky” Mallon. As the latter pre- 
sented himself, Tom was seized by a spasm of remorse. 
Consequent upon the excitement of the near approach of 
the trial in which he was so much interested, he had for- 
gotten his promise to Mallon. “Bucky” had told the 
exact truth, had carried out his part of the bargain, and 
Tom had not. 

“ Bucky hes sint me t’ yer agin,” said the young fellow 
apologetically, as he approached. 

“ I know,” replied Tom, “ I ought to have gone to him 
before, but I’ve been so busy with this trial that I have 
not had time. But I will go right now. I’ve got an 
hour’s leisure.” 

“Yer ought to go soon,” urged the young fellow. 
“ It’s along ov dis trial he wants fer to see you. He 
didn’t know till dis mornin’ dat de Pemberton trial was 
on.” 


THE FIRST DA Y. 


m 


Tom regarded the young man inquiringly. 

“ He’s got sumpen more for to tell yer,” added the 
young fellow. 

“ In that case,” said Tom, “ I’ll go now.” 

Casting the thought of lunch aside, he hurried to the 
Tombs, and was at once conducted to the cell of Mallon. 

“ Yer didn’t keep yer word,” said Mallon sullenly, 
when Tom appeared at the grating. 

“Oh, yes I did,” replied Tom. “You kept yours and 
I have mine. Mr. Lowe will defend you just as soon as 
he gets through this trial. But we have done more than 
we promised. Mr. Lowe will get bail for you and you’ll 
be released until the trial comes off. He told me to say 
that to you.” 

The young ruffian’s eyes sparkled. Already in his 
imagination he was swaggering among “ de gang,” boast- 
ing of his counsel and “ de pull ” he had with influential 
men. 

“ You’re a real gent’man,” he exclaimed delightedly. 
“Only I taut you’d come quicker. Did yer git der 
watch ? ” 

“ Yes,” replied Tom, “and without much trouble.” 

“ Wasn’t it his’n ? ” 

“Yes.” 

“ I knowed I was right. Say, how much did you give 
Moses fur it? ” 

“ Thirty dollars.” 

“ He made a sucker of you. Dat’s twenty more dan 
he giv. Say, since you’ve acted so square wid me, I’m 
goin’ to give yer sumpen more, dat I hel’ back tudder 
day. But eff I’d a knowd dat de Pemberton trial was a 
cornin’ on so soon, mebbe I’d don it den. Say, come 
up close. It’s a dead secret.” 


194 


ON THE RACK, 


“ Is it important ? ” 

“ You bet yer life it is, honey ! ” 

“ I’ll have you brought from the cell, then — that is, if 
you don’t want any one else to hear it.” 

This was soon accomplished, and Mallon was brought 
into the visitor’s room. The conversation was conducted 
in whispers, and as it progressed Tom became much ex- 
cited. Indeed, so great was his agitation that he seemed 
unable to fully comprehend the tale Mallon was telling, 
for he frequently asked the young man to repeat some- 
thing he had said, and of which he took voluminous 
notes. 

When Mallon was done, he asked anxiously : 

“ You haven’t missed a point ? ” 

“ Not one ; I’ve give it all up.” 

Tom rose, and after referring to his notes, he said im- 
pressively : 

“Mallon, if I find only one-half of what you have told 
me true, I promise you that you shall get out of this 
scrape without trial — without having to give bail ; that 
you’ll walk out of this jail a free man.” 

With this remark he hurried out into the street, ran 
hastily to Broadway, where he caught a cab and was 
driven to his own rooms. 

Here he hastily packed a satchel with a change of 
clothing, and then sat down to write two notes. 

One was to his office, informing his managing editor 
that he was going from town on a matter of great im- 
portance, and which, if his journey resulted favorably — 
as he had reason to believe it would — he would turn up 
with a “ sensation ” of huge dimensions. 

The other was addressed to Lowe. It was character- 
istic of the man : 


THE FIRST DA Y. 


195 


Dear Lowe : 

Delay this trial in every way. Don't let a point or a reason escape 
you. This is important ! I want all the time I can have, for I am 
going on a blind search. Fight for delay — raise the devil — get into 
jail for contempt — get thrown over the bar — anything but let them 
hurry the trial through. If you want anything from the Sol, go to 
Norman. He’s doing the trial and he’s all right — true blue. I don’t 
know how long I’ll be away. 

Yours, 

Tom Bryan. 

Having dispatched these notes, he entered his cab 
and was driven to the foot of Thirty-fourth Street on the 
east side. 

The court had been reassembled but a short time, 
when Tom’s note was handed to Mr. Lowe. He was 
much puzzled by it and finally showed it to Mr. 
Braham. 

That gentleman read it carefully several times. When 
he handed it back he said : 

“ Written in haste and under much excitement. Well, 
inasmuch, Lowe, as every point of any value we have in 
this case was got from Bryan, it strikes me we cannot 
do better than heed his request. He has evidently 
gotten hold of something of value.” 

“ Of course,” grumbled Lowe, “ but why the mischief 
didn’t he give us a hint as to what it was ! I hate work- 
ing in the dark ! ” 

“ Perhaps,” said Braham, “ it is a point too important 
to intrust to a letter. Bryan is devoted to this case ; he 
is honest and trustworthy, and his judgment good. We 
will do well to follow his suggestion.” 

“ Oh, there is no doubt about all that. Tom’s shrewd- 
ness is something phenomenal. He doesn’t go on wild 
goose chases. He’s after something worth having if 


ON THE RACK. 


19 6 

caught. But why the dickens didn’t he give us a 
hint ! ” 

It was shortly after this diversion that the first juror 
was chosen. He was a merchant who had been abroad 
for two months, and had seen references to the case only. 

In pursuance of the policy suggested by Tom, Lowe 
was about to challenge him, when he was prevented by 
Braham, who said that the man bore every evidence of 
being a broad, liberal man, and one to whom the 
romance of the story would appeal. So he was ac- 
cepted. 

But now the program of delay was put into operation, 
and with an adroitness that almost baffled detection. 
Indeed, though both the counsel for the prosecution and 
the judge were satisfied that all sorts of obstacles were 
being raised by the defense, sometimes, as it would 
appear, by the grossest blundering and stupidity, elicit- 
ing themselves the fact of a kindly inclination to the 
prisoner, compelling the prosecution to challenge, yet 
not an opening was left for a rebuke or censure. 

Monotonously the work went on. Talesman after 
talesman was rejected. The examination was long drawn 
out, until the judge more than once endeavored to 
shorten it. When the prosecution ceased to ask the 
question as to which paper the talesman read, the defense 
took it up, and, much to the annoyance of the district 
attorney, found that fully one-half read the Sol. Finally, 
in a moment of vexation, the district attorney said pet- 
tishly : 

“ It seems to me every one in this town reads the Sol." 

“ Are we to understand,” asked Braham, “ that that 
fact constitutes a disqualification as a juror in the minds 
of the prosecution ? ” 

“ You are to understand,” retorted the district attor- 


THE FIRST DA K 


197 


ney, “ that the defense chose its audience with all the 
acuteness for which its legal representatives are noted.” 

Mr. Braham did not press the question further. 

The afternoon slowly wasted away, and with little 
progress. That the case had attracted wide attention 
and had been as widely discussed was abundantly shown 
by the number of talesmen who announced that they had 
formed fixed opinions. These were a joy to Lowe, who 
plied them questions tending to make them admit that 
these opinions could not be changed by testimony, pro- 
longing the examination, while apparently traveling in 
the direction of the court’s desires. 

When this had been going forward some time, the judge, 
much nettled, took up the matter : 

“Do you mean,” he asked one, “that you would not 
permit your opinion to be changed ? ” 

The man was pugnacious and aggressive. 

“I believe I know all about this case,” he said, “as 
much as any one does, or as much as will be developed 
by testimony. I believe Pemberton shot Fellows, and 
that he did just right, and I would vote for his acquittal.” 

The man was firm and positive in his tone. The spec- 
tators applauded. 

“ If applause or demonstrations of any kind whatever 
again disturb the court, the room will be cleared,” said 
the judge, with great sternness. 

Turning to the talesman, with equal sternness : 

“ Your opinion is a disgrace to yourself. Stand aside ! ” 

The excused man was angry in a moment and re- 
torted. 

“ My opinions are my own and my right — not subject 
to the criticism of anybody ! ” 

“ Silence ! ” demanded the judge. “You are putting 
yourself in contempt of court ! ” 


198 


ON THE RACK. 


“ I am not going to be insulted by you and not resist 
it. You’ve no right to compel me to come here to listen 
to your insults ! ” 

Officers hurried him out of sight of the judge, who ap- 
parently debated with himself as to whether or not he 
should summon the pugnacious individual to the bar and 
punish him. 

At this moment, Mr. Braham, moved perhaps by a 
double motive — the first of taking uptime, and the other 
some alarm that the boldly expressed opinion of the 
talesman that his client was guilty of the charge al- 
leged, would, notwithstanding the sympathy shown, pre- 
judice Frank, rose and addressed the court: 

“If your Honor please, I submit that this cannot be 
permitted. We have a right to the protection of the 
court. Talesmen cannot be permitted to prejudice the 
interest of our client in this manner. To prevent a re- 
currence of this, I respectfully submit that the talesman 
should be punished ” 

“ Counsel is entirely right,” said the judge, cutting 
him olf shortly. “Officer, present the talesman at the 
bar ! ” 

When the person whose pugnacity had brought him to 
such a pass was presented, the judge administered to him 
a dignified rebuke, and said that a renewal of such con- 
duct would result in his imprisonment until he was 
purged of his contempt. 

By this time the talesman, somewhat awed by the 
formality of the proceedings, and obtaining a knowledge 
of the power the court could exercise he had not realized 
before, kept h*is own counsel, and was permitted to retire 
with a very red face. 

“ Some more time wasted,” whispered Lowe to Braham. 

The next talesman, influenced by his predecessor’s 


THE FIRST DA Y. 


1 99 


tilt with the judge, took the chair defiantly. He also 
had a fixed opinion and had followed the case with great 
interest from the beginning ; had discussed it with his 
friends, and, as Lowe elicited, had more than once ex- 
pressed an opinion as to what he would do if he were 
on the jury. 

The judge made no comment ; the man was excused 
and the judge was in an exceedingly bad humor. 

The hour of six arrived, and, as the judge announced 
a recess until eight o’clock, he said : 

“ The court is not at all satisfied with the progress 
made. Counsel unnecessarily prolong the labor. The 
court will not submit to delay in this matter.” 

Lowe jumped to his feet, angry, yet guided by a pur- 
pose, his voice sounding in protest and annoyance : 

“ Now, if your Honor please, when the last recess was 
taken the court threatened counsel as now, and did not 
discriminate between counsel. All day long the defense 
has stood here interposing no objections, making no 
delay, offering no obstruction, but facilitating the labor in 
every way. It is therefore not disposed to receive cen- 
sure. If the court is displeased with the policy pursued 
by the prosecution, the defense sees no reason why it 
should also fall’ under its censure. In all the number 
examined to-day the defense has used but one challenge. 
If the examinations as conducted by the defense has 
exhibited the unfitness of a talesman to sit upon the jury, 
the defense has only done its duty to its client, to the 
court, to the public, and to the cause of justice. No one 
can deny this or censure a course which results in the 
rejection of an unfit juror. The defense is ready to sit 
here all night if it needs be, in the obtainment of an 
intelligent, unprejudiced, and fair-minded jury, but it 
will not submit to censure when not deserved, and as the 


200 


OH THE EACH. 


record of to-day shows it is not. The defense has no 
desire for delay — why should it ? Its client must be ac- 
quitted, and the quicker that just end is reached the 
better. It knows the facts must make that result, and it 
knows that public opinion justifies that belief. The con- 
trary is held only by the police department, always stupid, 
and the prosecution, always — acute — and — perhaps one 
other interest in these proceedings ” 

“ The counsel will take his seat,” thundered the judge. 
“ He has gone too far ! ” 

“ I know my rights, your Honor, in this court and in 
every other, and in the discharge of my duty to my 
client ” 

“Silence ! ” again thundered the judge. 

The prosecution was amazed by these tactics, the court 
staggered, Mr. Braham complacent ; he had faith in 
Lowe. 

“ The counsel will take his seat,” said the court 
quietly but firmly. 

Mr. Lowe did so, mopping his brow with his handker- 
chief, as if he were in great heat. 

Then the judge said : 

“The counsel, whose zeal for his client is well known, 
has permitted that zeal to outrun his discretion — to lose 
his temper unnecessarily. The court did not censure ; 
it did not animadvert, it warned. The court has no 
complaint to make of the defense, except as to the 
childish ill-temper which has just been exhibited. It, 
however, warns counsel that it will not treat another 
exibition with the same leniency. The court takes a 
recess until eight o’clock.” 

“The day has been a long and wearying one, your 
Honor,” said the district attorney. “We will all of us 
be in a better humor because of a recess.” 


THE FIRST DA Y. 


20 


The judge now left the bench. 

Braham said to Lowe : 

“All the points so far have been in our favor. That 
talk of yours was pretty bold — especially the suggestion 
that the court was prejudiced against the prisoner.” 

“ So he is. I intended it to be bold,” said Lowe. “ I 
know the old fellow well. He is against Pemberton, but 
he thinks he has not shown his prejudice. I have been 
aching all the afternoon to get that point in on him. You 
see he wants to be impartial, and if he thinks either we 
or the prosecution have an idea he inclines against Pem- 
berton, he will stand up so straight that he will lean our 
way. Courtesy and deference doesn’t win with him. My 
attack will help more than the other, way. Of course it 
was a desperate chance, but then this is a desperate 
defense, and I took the chances. He has severely re- 
buked me and he will feel all the more kindly toward us 
because of it.” 

“Well,” said Braham, “ it’s all right. We have noth- 
ing to complain of to-day. Only one juror has been ob- 
tained. At this rate to secure twelve men will take the 
whole of the week.” 

“ We must exhaust the week,” said Lowe energetically. 
“ And more than that if we can. We must give Bryan 
every chance.” 

At this moment Norman came up and asked if Lowe 
had any knowledge of Bryan’s whereabouts. 

“ None whatever,” replied the lawyer. 

“ He wrote a note to the office, saying he was going 
out of town on important business, but did not say 
what.” 

“ I received a similar note,” said Lowe. 

“Well, whatever it is,” said Norman, “it is something 
about this case. Before he hurried away, I know he had 


202 


ON THE RACK. 


an interview in the Tombs with a prisoner named 
Mallon.” 

“ Ah ! ” This made Lowe thoughtful. He recalled 
that Tom had received knowledge of Clarence’s watch 
from this same Mallon. 

In the mean time Colonel Standish and Marion and 
Frank had been waiting for the lawyers to finish their 
conversation. 

As Lowe joined them, Colonel Standish put out his 
hand to him and said most earnestly : 

“ You’re a man after my heart, Mr. Lowe. You’re a 
fighter. But do you know I got the same idea the judge 
did, that you were causing the delay.” 

Lowe laughed slyly and said : 

“ Your judgment is not to be impeached, Colonel.” 

Braham came up and engaged in conversation with 
the colonel and Marion, while Frank said to Lowe : 

“I did not understand your tactics to day.” 

“ They are very simple, Mr. Pemberton — everything 
for delay and not one cent for haste.” 

“ But why, 1 do not understand ! ” 

“ Neither do we. Bryan has gone after some big 
thing — what, we don’t know ; but he pleads frantically 
for delay. So we are going it blind.” 

They then strolled off for dinner. 

When they returned at eight the court-room was 
practically deserted, except by the talesmen yet to be 
examined. 

The work was taken up and went forward wearily 
without incident until eleven o’clock, when a second 
juror was obtained. 

The judge was about to order an adjournment at that 
hour, but before doing so he said : 

“The court has learned that pending the beginning of 


THE FIRST DAY. 


203 


the trial the prisoner in this case has been upon baiL 
The admission of one so charged is a very unusual pro- 
ceeding. I do not intend to criticise the act ; I simply 
say it is unusual ; but now that the trial is begun, I doubt 
very much whether the prisoner should be permitted his 
liberty.” 

Lowe and Braham were upon their feet at once, but 
the judge imposed silence as he added : 

“I desire to hear the district attorney upon this point.” 

Marion turned pale at this suggestion, and bent for- 
ward toward the judge with burning eyes. She laid her 
hand upon Frank’s shoulder as if she would shield him 
from the threatened blow. 

Colonel Standish was indignant, and clearly showed 
it. The judge was but human. He had been greatly 
provoked by the tactics of Lowe and Braham, and all the 
more because he could find no way to resent them, and 
he desired to deliver a blow at them. 

“ I confess, your Honor,” said the district attorney, 
“that your suggestion was not anticipated by me. But 
only because I have been so absorbed in the selection of 
a jury that it had escaped me. I thank your Honor 
for calling it up. The admission to bail of a prisoner 
charged with so grave a crime is most unusual. When 
the motion was made early in January and the dispo- 
sition was manifest to grant it, I was consulted as to the 
amount of bail. I considered the fact that the prisoner 
was in many ways connected with large wealth, and with 
people accustomed to deal in large sums, bringing, as a 
consequence, that contempt for money which does not 
have place with professional men. I therefore fixed the 
sum a large one, and the prisoner is now under bonds 
for $100,000.” 

“And,” growled Colonel Standish, so audibly as to be 


204 


ON THE RACK. 


overheard by the district attorney, “ if necessary, we can 
double — ay, treble it.” 

Marion squeezed her father’s hand and cast upon him 
a look of profound gratitude. 

“Now, your Honor,” said Braham, “this suggestion 
comes upon us with all the suddenness of an unexpected 
blow. We are wholly unprepared for it. We have had 
no time for consideration. It is presented to us as 
the hour of midnight approaches. It seems to me an 

unnecessary hardship to impose ” 

“I ask no special favors,” said Frank, in a low tone to 
Braham, who stooped to listen to him. “If this is the 
custom, and the court thinks justice is better served by 
my committal, I will go willingly.” 

“ Oh, I know,” said Braham aloud, “ that has been 
your attitude from the beginning. Our client, your 
Honor, suggests that nq opposition be offered. He 
says he asks no special favors, and that if, in the 
opinion of your Honor, the cause of justice is better 
served, he is willing to go to the Tombs. At the same 
time, a bondsman, sitting here, says that if necessary the 
bond against which I contended when imposed, may be 
increased to double the amount. But, sir, I do not 
think either is necessary. We have no intention of 
evading this trial. We are too conscious of our innocence 
— too anxious for the verdict of twelve men to that end. 
I may repeat here what I said at the time of the motion 
for bail — that so anxious are we to be put to the test of 
trial, that the prisoner might be permitted to go upon 
his own recognizance with absolute surety of his ap- 
pearance in court. Assuredly the status of the prisoner 
to-day in no way differs from what it was last night.” 

“ What does the prosecutor say ? ” 

“ I am inclined to think, your Honor, that no more 


THE FIRST DA Y. 


205 


risk is taken now than has been any time these four 
weeks. What may be the condition after a jury has been 
secured, however, is another matter. I think we can 
safely postpone this discussion until then.” 

“ Very well,” said the judge, having given a most un- 
comfortable twenty minutes to the defense, “ the court 
stands adjourned until to-morrow morning at ten.” 

As the judge descended from-the bench, Marion rose 
and with infinite grace in her movements and gratitude 
in her eyes advanced to the district attorney and 
said : 

“ I thank you, sir, for your generous magnanimity to 
Mr. Pemberton. Whatever you may conceive it to be 
your duty to do in this trial, I shall not forget your chiv- 
alry of to-night.” 

The district attorney, unprepared, was somewhat con- 
fused under her dark eyes, glowing with thankfulness. 
Then, gathering himself, he replied with great courtli- 
ness : 

“ I thank you, madam, for ascribing such generous 
motives to me. Permit me to add, that if the counsel for 
the defense were to stand aside, and let you represent 
your lover’s cause, were I to strive never so hard before, 
all my efforts would fail before the eloquence of your 
gracious person.” 

Then, with old-fashioned courtesy, he took her hand, 
leading her back to her friends, and with a profound 
bow delivered her to her father. 

What impulse led him to also bow respectfully to 
Frank, he never could determine, but, as it was, Frank 
rose and with a bow as respectful and deferential. And 
the interchange of courtesies was over. 

“ Well,” said Lowe, who had been an interested and 
astonished spectator, “ well, I’m d . And only two 


20 6 


ON THE RACK. 


jurors and an empty court-room to see it. What infer- 
nal luck ! ” 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

IN GOOD EARNEST. 

L OWE proved to be a prophet. Notwithstanding the 
efforts of the judge, two panels were exhausted and 
the third well diminished before twelve men, good and 
true, were chosen. It was not until Friday afternoon at 
five o’clock that the last man was accepted. By that 
time the prosecution had used up all their challenges and 
the defense had made but three. It was a triumph for 
Lowe and Braham which won the hearty admiration of 
the members of the bar. 

The district attorney, wearied and vexed, asked for an 
adjournment until Monday, alleging the necessity of 
devoting Saturday to the other duties of his position, 
pointing out to the court that the continuous sessions dur- 
ing the week, far extending into the night, had deprived 
him of those hours each day, which he might otherwise 
have devoted to other matters. Moreover, he pointed 
out that the prosecution could do little more than open 
the case before Tuesday arrived, when a hardship in 
locking up the jury would be imposed. 

The defense made practically no opposition to this 
suggestion, and so the judge, loth as he was to grant the 
adjournment, did so. 

Therefore, shortly after five o’clock, the parties to the 
trial separated and went their respective ways. 

But before Colonel Standish left the room he asked as 
to Bryan, whose prolonged absence was becoming alarm- 


IN GOOD EARNEST. 


207 


ing. Not a word had been heard from him since he had 
written the two notes on the day of his departure. In 
what direction he had gone no one knew, and the only 
information attainable was that he had gone to the 
Thirty-fourth Street ferry. Why and what for ? 

These were questions no one could answer. Anxiety 
as to his whereabouts was as great in the Sol office as in 
the coterie of friends surrounding Frank. 

The managing editor, Tompkins, alone was content 
that a good reason for his absence existed. 

“ Tom is a steady fellow ; he doesn’t drink, and he 
doesn’t lose his head,” he said to the chief. “ Of course, 
it is somewhat irregular to run off this way and leave no 
trace of himself, but you know, we have fallen into the 
habit of giving him the widest latitude. He’ll turn up 
all right and with something to justify his action.” 

The announcement that a jury had been finally secured, 
and that the trial would proceed in good earnest on 
Monday, at ten o’clock, had evidently been read by a 
large number of people. 

The court-room was filled to overflowing at half past 
nine o’clock on Monday morning. Nor was the audience 
composed of the usual idlers who throng the room at all 
trials. It was largely made up of ladies, who were either 
acquainted with Frank or Marion, or who had become 
interested in the case through reading of the extra- 
ordinary circumstances attending it, and their escorts. 

To their deep disgust, the members of the bar found 
the space reserved for them encroached upon by these 
ladies, who could not be made to understand that their 
presence was not welcome. 

Indeed, the attendants with difficulty only could per- 
suade them that they were not entitled to seats in 
the jury-box. One young lady, more enterprising than 


208 


ON THE RACK. 


the rest, observing that the witness chair occupied a 
commanding position, snugly ensconced herself in it, 
directing her escort to seat himself upon the platform on 
which it stood. Nor was she well pleased when a police- 
man in uniform dislodged her. 

The reporters of the press found their seats occupied, 
nor could they obtain them until they appealed to the 
officers of the court. 

The members of the bar present to watch and obtain 
points from the proceedings, gathered in a group and 
discussed the chances of the trial in advance. 

“ Phillips has no direct evidence, I understand,” said 
one. 

“No ; purely circumstantial,” replied another. 

“But very strong,” put in another. “ There is no es- 
caping the conclusion.” 

“ Lowe and Braham are very confident,” suggested the 
fourth. 

“ Pooh ! that’s their game. They always are in the be- 
ginning.” 

“ Phillips says they are playing for delay, and he can’t 
see why.” 

“ They only made three challenges.” 

“ But made him do it all by themselves, bringing out 
the facts that the talesmen were favorable to the defense.” 

“ Strange tactics ! ” 

“ Idiotic, I should call it ! ” 

“ Don’t do it with those two fellows. They had a deep 
purpose.” 

“ The shrewdest and most adroit practitioners at the 
bar.” 

“ And the best fighters.” 

“The prisoner could not be better defended.” 

“ I’d like to get the fee they’ll have. There’s over 


w good earnest. 209 

twenty million at the back of the prisoner, and no money 
spared.” 

“ Fifty detectives on the case with a complete personal 
history of every talesman summoned, in Lowe’s posses- 
sion, so my clerk says.” 

“Bet you Phillips don’t convict.” 

“ Of what ? ” 

“ Murder in the first degree.” 

“ Bet you Phillips gets a conviction of some kind.” 

“ Phillips says the evidence must hang.” 

“ So does Lawton. He says Lowe and Braham have 
given their whole case to the newspapers.” 

“ Don’t believe it ! Not they indeed. Look out for 
surprises ! ” 

“Bet you it’ll be a disagreement.” 

“ Bet you I call the turn after I hear the cross-examina- 
tion of to-day.” 

There was an unusual commotion at the door. Some 
people were struggling for admittance. 

“ Here comes the defense,” cried one. “ What a 
shame it is that they don’t keep the gangways open ! ” 

“ Who is the fine-looking old man Lowe is so careful 
of?” 

“Colonel Standish.” 

“ Then the lady must be his daughter — the one en- 
gaged to Pemberton.” 

“ Yes ; what a lovely woman, and how modest ! ” 

“ There comes the prisoner ! ” 

“ Which one ? ” 

“ The one with Whitney.” 

“ Ah ! Fine-looking, manly fellow. Who are the two 
old men with him ? ” 

« The large man is Whitney’s father — the other, Mr. 
Evans — both partners of Pemberton.” 


210 


ON THE RACK \ 


“ By Jove, they don’t desert their partner when he is 
in trouble ! I like to see that ! ” 

“ Looks bad for Phillips ! ” 

“ Why ? ” 

“ Because they stick so close they must believe him in- 
nocent.” 

“ Pshaw ! They’re partners ! ” 

“ So was the man killed.” 

“ By Jove, that’s so ! ” 

“ I say, I don’t believe Pemberton killed the man. He 
doesn’t look like it.” 

“ Tell the judge so. He’ll discharge him and take you 
for a seer.” 

As on the first day, the rumor spread through the 
room that the lady sitting near the counsel for the de- 
fense was the lady who was the innocent cause of the 
death of Fellows. There was a general movement to 
obtain a view of her and to determine whether the news- 
paper stories as to her great beauty were true. Ladies 
stood up boldly and stared at her. Some used their 
lorgnettes and calmly scrutinized her features and her 
dress, and Frank as well. Many made comments. 

“ She is lovely ! What a complexion ! ” 

“If it is natural. But she has fine eyes.” 

“She is nicely dressed.” 

“ Too much so considering her position here.” 

“ I don’t think so.” 

“ She is very unconscious.” 

“ Her lover is splendid ! ” 

“ Yes, I could love him myself ! ” 

“ Better try to take him away from her.” 

“I would if I had the chance.” 

Another group was heard to say : 


IN MOOD EARNEST. 


211 


“ I don’t believe he shot the man ! He doesn’t look 
like it.” 

“ Pshaw ! Don’t say that ! You rob him of his 
interest.” 

Still another said : 

“ He looks like a man who would defend the woman 
he loves at any cost.” 

“It must be nice to be loved so.” 

“ He loves her. See the expression of his eyes as he 
looks at her.” 

“Of course he does. He killed the man who tried to 
injure her.” 

Still another said : 

“ There is no doubt of her love for him. Look at that 
tender expression when he is talking to her.” 

“Who could help it ? If he had done for me what he 
has done for her, I’d worship the ground he walked on.” 

“ Who are those twelve men sitting apart ? ” asked one, 
in another group, of her particular escort. 

“ The jury.” 

“ What is that ? ” 

“ The men who say whether Pemberton is guilty or 
not guilty, after they have heard everything.” 

“ Of course they’ll say ‘ not guilty.’ ” 

“ Oh, that depends.” 

“ They ought to be punished if they don’t say not 
guilty. Of course he is not ! ” 

Fora while Marion was unconscious , of the buzz of 
comment she had excited — unconscious that a thousand 
eyes were focused upon her. But, observing Frank’s 
uneasiness, she looked about to discover its cause, and she 
saw that she was attracting the attention of all the room. 
The blood rushed to her face and she shrank ftom the 
gaze directed upon her. 


212 


ON THE RACK. 


Frank, leaning forward, said anxiously : 

“ This is too much for you, Marion. You would do 
better to retire.” 

Marion looked up at him with something of reproach 
in her eyes : 

“ Is it not worse for you ? Is not my place beside 
you ? No, if it were a hundred times worse I would 
stay ? ” 

Before Frank could reply there was another commo- 
tion in the room. The prosecution came in from the 
door through which the judge entered. 

The judge immediately followed. The attendants 
called for order, and the crowded room, with no little 
confusion, settled into interested expectancy. 

The preliminaries were rattled through with such haste 
and apparent indifference that it seemed to Marion like 
sacrilege, so highly wrought was she. 

The judge, looking over at the district attorney, asked : 

“ How much time will you occupy in opening ? ” 

“ Our side will not exhaust an hour.” 

“ And the defense ? ” asked the judge. 

Lowe was on his feet in an instant, lowering and 
aggressive. 

“ A human life is at stake, your Honor,” he said. “ A 
reputation is on the rack. I have not considered the 
time, only my duty to the prisoner and to the jury charged 
with passing on the facts. I do not know.” 

The judge was nettled, and reddened visibly, but did 
not reply. 

“ Proceed,” was all he said. 

The first assistant district attorney arose and made a 
simple, strong statement of the facts surrounding the 
death of Fellows, but most skillfully weaving the circum- 
stances so that they told with great force and effect 


IN GOOD EARNEST . 


213 

against Frank. It was all the more forceful and effective 
from the manner of the orator, so calm, so dispassionate, 
displaying no heat and making no attempt at eloquence. 

When he had finished, the lawyers present as spectators 
said : 

“ Mac has made a strong statement.’' 

The district attorney shook hands with his assistant, 
openly congratulating him. 

There was a rustle in the room, the relief from strained 
attention, as the orator sat down. He had spoken one 
hour and a half. 

The first witness was called. He was the officer who 
had found the body of Clarence on the morning of the 
first of the year. He was permitted to retire, as was the 
one summoned by him, without cross-examination, even 
though the latter testified as to the finding of the pistol 
with Frank’s name upon it. 

To the surprise of the defense, Dr. Eiwell was next 
called. The object of his examination was to determine 
that Clarence was dead when brought to the station-house, 
had been for several hours, and to establish the theory 
that he’had been shot previous to one in the morning. 

Marion was alarmed. She whispered to Frank : 

“ I thought he was on our side.” 

Lowe overheard her and replied : 

“It is all right, my dear young lady; he serves us 
better on that side than on ours.” 

The direct examination being over, Mr. Braham arose 
to cross-examination. 

He asked a few questions, tending to elicit the fact 
that Dr. Eiwell was no longer on the force. 

Then he asked : 

“You carefully examined the body when it was 
brought in ? ” 


214 


ON THE RACK. 


“Yes, sir ; and discovered that I could do nothing for 
the man, as he had been dead some hours.” 

“ What was your conclusion when you had finished 
your examination ? ” 

“ In respect of what, sir ? ” 

“ In respect of the cause of death.” 

“ That it was caused by a pistol shot.” 

“ Of course. But was it in your judgment an acci- 
dental shot ? ” 

“ No, sir. I thought that death was self-inflicted, and 
do yet — a suicide.” 

There was a great rustle in the court. The lawyers 
grinned ; such a fact to be elicited from one of the 
prosecution’s own witnesses ! Could it be possible the 
district attorney did not know the theory entertained by 
his own witness ? It must be so. 

The judge was surprised, and showed it in his actions 
as he bent a look of deep interest upon the witness. 
The district attorney was red in the face, and his satel- 
lites clearly showed their confusion. A shell had burst 
in their midst when they least expected it. 

Marion was radiant, for she perceived the effect, with- 
out being able to measure its value. Her beaming face 
and glowing eyes made many a masculine heart throb in 
the room. 

“ What caused you to reach that conclusion ? ” asked 
Braham, after a pause long enough to produce the effect 
he desired. 

“ First, because the muzzle of the barrel was pressed 
close to the flesh — very evident at that time. If it had 
been other than self-inflicted, the muzzle would have 
been held at some distance. Again, the location of the 
wound helped me to that conclusion. My observation 
is that when a pistol wound is inflicted by a pistol in the 


IN GOOD EARNEST. 


2I $ 


hands of another party, the wound is either in the front 
or the rear of the person shot ; rarely, if ever, on the 
side, and never, so far as I can recall, in the temple ; 
that in suicide, it is either at the side or in the front of 
the face, seldom reached by a ball when the person is 
killed purposely or by accident.” 

“ Did you express that opinion at the time ? ” 

“ I did, immediately.” 

“ Before you knew who the dead man was ? ” 

“ Yes, sir, and before I knew the circumstances under 
which he was found.” 

“ You only knew you had been summoned to examine 
a dead man ? ” 

“ No, sir ; I was summoned to give aid to a wounded 
man, but my first glance showed him to be dead ; my 
second thought was that he had been dead several 
hours ; my next one that it was a case of suicide.” 

“ But before hearing any of the circumstances con- 
nected with the shooting, or the finding of the body, or 
who the man was, you said openly and aloud that it was 
a case of suicide.” 

“ That ‘ it was death self-inflicted,' to repeat my exact 
words.” 

“ That will do.” 

Dr. Elwell attempted to leave the stand, but he was 
detained by the district attorney, who rose to his feet 
quickly, with a thundercloud resting upon his face. 

He stood some time, apparently looking over notes, 
but in reality gathering himself together. 

“ By heavens ! ” said one interested legal spectator to 
another at his side, “ that is a bad blow for Phillips. 
It was evidently unexpected. See how black he looks. 
His own witness, too. Pie can’t impeach his own testi- 


2l6 


ON THE RACK. 


mony. I told you to look out for surprises. How cun- 
ning it was ! ” 

“ Yes, by George ! ” replied the other, “ it is bad to 
have one of your own witnesses throw a doubt upon 
your theory at the outset. It will be difficult to over- 
come the impression made on the jury.” 

The district attorney in the few moments he was on 
his feet had had time to think, and he concluded that 
questions as to the firmness of his witness in his own be- 
lief would not help matters, since Dr. Elwell looked like 
a man who spoke only after consideration, and was 
tenacious of his own opinions. He therefore asked only 
a few unimportant questions and let him go. 

But he' was very angry with Captain Lawton because 
he had not informed him of the episode occurring in the 
station-house ; angry with Dr. Elwell, because, when he 
was questioned as to whether he could support the 
theory that Clarence died before one o’clock, he had not 
volunteered his belief in suicide, and thus prevented him 
from falling into such a trap. 

Other witnesses were now called to establish the fact that 
the body found was that of Clarence Fellows, and a little 
wonder was excited by Braham’s cross-examination as 
to the certainty with which they had identified the body. 

These witnesses were followed by the sergeant on duty 
at the station-house in the morning the body had been 
brought in, and who had directed the search of Clarence’s 
clothes. 

The various articles were presented and identified by 
him. When Braham took him in hand he took up the 
the watch and chain, which had been identified, and 
asked : 

“ Is this the watch and chain taken that morning from 
the clothes of the dead man ? ” 


IN GOOD EARNEST. 


217 


“ Yes, sir ! ” 

“ You have no doubt about that ? ” 

“ No, sir.” 

“ I want you to be positive about this. You are under 
no mistake ? ” 

“ None whatever. That is the one — I have a descrip- 
tion of it, taken at the time.” 

‘‘Then this is the one ? ” 

“ Yes, sir.” 

Every one was interested in it. The district attorney 
feared another trap. But Braham dropped that part of 
the examination and went on to the part of his summon- 
ing the police surgeon, and finally got from the sergeant 
that he had heard Dr. Elwell declare that death was 
self-inflicted. 

The hour for recess had arrived. The district attor- 
ney was anxious for it, and suggested it to the court ; 
so it was ordered. 

“A good morning’s work,” said Braham to Lowe. 
“We’ve shaken up the prosecution pretty well.” 

“ Yes,” replied Lowe, with a grim smile, “ Phillips was 
about as badly confused as I ever saw him.” 

An eminent lawyer lounged up. 

“Well, Lowe,” he said, “ you gave Phillips a surprise 
with his own witness. He was not prepared for it.” 

“Yes,” replied Lowe, “accidents happen favorably 
sometimes.” 

“ Oh, yes, accidents ! ” laughed the other. “A most 
carefully prepared accident.” 

“Watch close,” replied Lowe, with a wink, “and 
you’ll see plenty of them in this case.” 

While this was going forward, the district attorney 
was evidently giving Captain Lawton a piece of his mind, 
to judge from his wrathful face and energetic gestures, 


2l8 


ON THE RACK . 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

MARION TELLS HER STORY. 

M ARION and Frank, desiring to escape observation 
as much as possible, did not leave the room at re- 
cess. Nor indeed did many of the spectators, fearing to 
lose their seats. 

Marion was jubilant. She thought the case was won. 
She exaggerated the effect produced by Dr. Elwell’s 
testimony. While Frank did not share in her enthusiasm, 
nevertheless, he felt more encouraged than he had for 
many days. 

After recess the room was quite as much crowded — a 
large number of lawyers being in attendance. The dis- 
trict attorney came in early. He was not much improved 
in temper. Some of his more intimate friends had proved 
their friendship for him by joking him upon the trap into 
which he had fallen. 

Promptly at the hour the judge ascended the bench 
and the proceedings were taken up. 

Several clerks of Evans, Whitney & Co. were sum- 
moned to testify as to the intimate relations existing be- 
tween Frank and Clarence in the past. Another one to 
testify to a quarrel occurring between them on the day the 
announcement was made that both were to be admitted 
to the concern — a quarrel which he had seen, but words 
of which he had not overheard, but had presumed it 
had grown out of the great event of the day. 

These witnesses were cross-examined by Braham at 
great length, especially the one testifying to the quarrel. 
This was solely for the purpose of consuming time. The 
defense would have been quite willing to have admitted the 


MARION TELLS HER STORY. 


219 


quarrel. When, however, the judge became restive, he 
suspended it, having wasted a good part of the afternoon. 

Then Mr. Evans was called, and testified as to his 
interference in the quarrel between the two men — as to 
its cause and the unreasonable attitude as to it, and his 
demand that there should be reconciliation. The effect 
of the evidence was to show that, while Clarence re- 
garded Frank with extreme bitterness, Frank had shown 
no anger, but, upon the contrary, an earnest desire for 
an ending of the difference, while maintaining his rights 
and manhood. This was very manifest after Braham had 
done with the questions. 

Turner was sworn — the officer on duty in Twenty- 
seventh Street to warn people as to the character of the 
house into which the attempt had been made to lure 
Marion. 

The vast audience became intently interested. This 
was the point in the trial which had given it its distinct- 
ive characteristic. This was where the love romance 
was to enter, and, as the questions developed the fact 
that the story was to be told, a hush fell upon the au- 
dience. 

Turner told the story as it has been related in the pre- 
vious chapters, and established fully the hour at which it 
took place. He related feelingly, and with evident sym- 
pathy, the indignation shown by Frank over the das- 
tardly intrigue, and the agitation of the lady when she 
found what she had narrowly escaped. He told how he 
had urged Frank to take the lady from the street, before 
she could be recognized by any one knowing her. 

Under Braham’s skillful questioning he was made to 
show how outrageous was the plot, and how he had sym- 
pathized with both. The result plainly was that the 
finer feelings of the jury had been greatly stirred, 


220 


ON THE RACK. 


Then the two officers out of uniform, who had inter- 
fered to prevent Frank from harming Clarence on Sixth 
Avenue were brought forth, and so was the clerk who 
had also interfered, and they told the event in detail and 
what had been said. 

The first one of them sworn had said that Frank had 
in his anger cried out, “ I will crush you ! I will kill 
you ! ” 

During the cross-examination Braham had asked: 

“ Are you certain he said those words just as you re- 
peat them ? ” 

Yes, he was certain. 

“ Now will you swear he didn’t say ‘ I will kill you ! I 
will crush you ! * ” 

This confused the witness somewhat, and Braham 
pressed the point again and again, still more confusing 
the witness. 

Finally the judge said pettishly: 

“What difference does it make in which order the 
words were spoken ? ” 

“ A great deal, your Honor. These were the ravings of 
an angry man, who used words as they came to his mind 
without meaning or purpose. The fact that he did, as 
we know, threaten to crush Fellows after he had threatened 
to kill him, shows there was no purpose in his words, 
which there would have been had he used his words 
with malice prepense ; then he would have put the 
stronger last.” 

“ Counsel may see something in this, but the court is 
unable to do so. Go on,” said the judge contemptuously. 

Braham had wasted more time, but he had not im- 
proved his reputation for ability. Nor had he in any 
way weakened the point of the prosecution, which was 
the great provocation Clarence had given Frank. 


MARION TELLS HER STORY. 


221 


The impression made upon the jury was manifest. 

A lawyer whispered to his neighbor : 

“ The prosecution has got its work in at last. It is very 
strong.” 

Now came the district attorney’s great sensation. He 
stood up — looked over the room carefully — thus concen- 
trating attention upon himself. Having secured this 
and found the room was hushed, he called out im- 
pressively : 

“Miss Marion Standish.” 

The defense was totally unprepared for this. She had 
not been subpoenaed, but she was there, subject to be 
called. 

Frank started up in protest, but Lowe quickly pulled 
him down with the stern remark : 

“ You cannot protest ! It is their right ! ” 

Braham had performed the same office for Colonel 
Standish. 

There was a rustle over the room. Spectators leaned 
forward. This was more than was hoped for. The lady 
whose love story had been told in a newspaper was now 
to tell it herself. No novel was ever half so entertaining, 
and no play half so interesting. The ladies present 
quivered with excitement, and the men, as she rose, cursed 
the lawyers who could drag so dainty a flower into such- 
rude publicity. 

Lowe rose, made way for her by removing the chairs 
from before her, and, taking her hand, escorted her 
through the room, passing the district attorney, and saw 
her seated in .the witness chair, when, with alow respect- 
ful bow, he retired. The judge was angry, but the spec- 
tators were inclined to applaud his gallantry. 

“ Half of Phillips’s effect is gone by that,” said one 
lawyer to another. “ There’s no getting ahead of Lowe.” 


222 


ON THE RACK . 


Marion felt her position keenly. She sat upon her 
chair, with her eyes modestly cast upon the floor, her 
cheeks burning. For Frank every moment was a cen- 
tury of agony. He knew, far better than Marion did, 
what it all meant. He knew that this sensitive, highly or- 
ganized woman, the very pink of refinement, who would 
shrink from confiding her love story to her most intimate 
friends, would be compelled by his ruthless antagonist 
to lay bare her soul and her heart’s secrets. And he 
knew that for love of him she would do it with a courage 
only possessed by women of her kind. 

But she was there, conspicuous in the chair, under a 
full blaze of light, a picture of elegance and beauty, 
modesty and refinement, which won every heart in the 
room. 

She was sworn and then waited for the questions. 

“Your name is Miss Marion Standish?” asked the 
district attorney. 

“Yes.” The answer came faintly and was expressed 
more by the motion of the head than by her lips. 

“ You are the daughter of Colonel William Standish?” 

“ Yes.” 

“You are under engagement of marriage to the pris- 
oner of the bar ? ” 

“Yes.” 

“ When did that engagement take place ? ” 

“ On the 7th of October of last year.” 

The judge did not hear the answer, nor did the stenog- 
rapher, who looked up and said shortly : “ Did not hear 
the answer.” 

The judge, looking over at the witness, said kindly : 

“ You must speak a little more loudly, my dear. We 
cannot hear you.” 

Marion repeated it in a louder and clearer voice, and 


MARION TELLS HER STORY. 


223 


her voice fell like the tones of a silver bell upon the 
room. 

“ The deceased Fellows was suitor for your hand be- 
fore you entered into engagement with Mr. Pemberton ? ” 

“ He was not.” 

The district attorney was surprised at the answer. 

“ He was attentive to you at Richfield Springs ? ” 

“ Not more so than other gentlemen at the same 
place.” 

“Were not his attentions very significant ?** 

“I did not regard them as such.” 

“You were in no doubt as to the state of his affections 
toward you, were you ? ” 

“ I was in no doubt, because I never saw anything that 
indicated that he entertained any affection at all for me.” 

“ You accepted attentions from him ? ” 

“ I regarded him only as a pleasant and agreeable 
acquaintance.” 

“ Please answer my question. You accepted attentions 
from him ? ” 

“ Not more than I did the attentions of others — not so 
much as from some other gentlemen there at the time.” 

“ That does not answer my question.” 

This was said so sharply that Marion’s spirit was 
aroused : 

“ I will not be entrapped into admitting that Mr. Fel- 
lows’s attentions were special, or more than bestowed 
upon me by other gentlemen of my acquaintance.” 

“ I do not wish, Miss Standish, to entrap you into any 
admission. I only want to know if you received atten- 
tions from Mr. Fellows at Richfield Springs last July.” 

“I did, as I did from other gentlemen.” 

The district attorney retired baffled. The little tilt 
had done Marion good. She was now ready to do valiant 


224 


ON THE RACK. 


battle for her lover. Her spirit had been fairly aroused. 
Moreover, everybody in the room sympathized with her, 
ardently espoused her side, and gloried in her persist- 
ency. 

“ From Richfield Springs you went to Nahant ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ There you met the prisoner at the bar ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“And became very well acquainted with him?” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Was he attentive to you ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Specially so ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ His attentions were significant ? ” 

“Yes.” 

“ More so than those of Mr. Fellows at Richfield 
Springs ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ And you accepted his attentions ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ More than you did those of Mr. Fellows ?” 

Marion thought the district attorney was persecuting 
her with these questions, and that there was, if not sar- 
casm, at least raillery in his tone ; she resented it. 
Leaning forward, with her dark eyes full upon him, she 
said in a low, full voice, that nevertheless floated over 
the room : 

“ Whenever he did me the honor to bestow them upon 
me. I loved him.” 

There was a sort of a gasp, as if the whole room had 
taken one breath. It had been said so bravely, withal 
so modestly, and seemed to be so wrung from her very 
soul, that the audience took her answer as she meant it 


MARION TELLS HER STORY. 225 

to be, a rebuke to her questioner. There was a faint 
ruffle of applause, too faint to be reproved by the judge. 
The audience waited with breathless interest the next 
question. But it came slowly, for the district attorney 
had been somewhat abashed by the answer he had re- 
ceived. 

“ At your various meetings with the prisoner, did you 
talk of Mr. Fellows ?” 

“ I don’t think his name was ever mentioned.” 

“ Why was that ? ” 

“ I cannot tell. I suppose for the reason I did not 
know Mr. Pemberton knew Mr. Fellows and — because 
Mr. Fellows had made no particular impression upon 
me, and I did not carry him in my memory.” 

“ When did you next see Mr. Fellows after leaving 
Richfield Springs ? ” 

“I never saw him after leaving there.” 

“ Did he never communicate with you, by letter or 
otherwise ? ” 

“ Never.” 

The district attorney was nonplussed. He had sup- 
posed from what he had learned of the conversation be- 
tween Captain Lawton and Mr. Evans that there had 
been strong rivalry between the two — Clarence and 
Frank — and that Marion had chosen between them. He 
had therefore constructed a theory which he was con- 
fident he could sustain by his examination of her. He 
did not want to subpoena her, fearing that Lowe and Bra- 
ham would instruct her how to answer and what to 
avoid. When he found she was attending every session 
of the court, he concluded he would spring her examina- 
tion as a surprise. Her answers were destructive of his 
theory. He became nettled and angry. He felt that 
the sympathy of the room was against him ; that the 


226 


ON THE RACK . 


jury was against him in the line of examination he was 
pursuing. He was not quite certain that he had not 
made a mistake. The thought of it angered him the 
more. When he passed on to the other part of the ex- 
amination there was asperity in his tone and aggressive- 
ness in his manner. 

“Well, then,” he said, “you were engaged in Octo- 
ber, having met Mr. Pemberton only in the previous 
August ? ” 

Lowe was on his feet before she could reply. 

“ Now then, your Honor," he said, “ it is true that this 
witness is a witness summoned by the prosecution, but if 
she is, bound as she is, by the most sacred of ties to our 
client, she is therefore under our protection ; they are 
one in the sight of God, and she cannot be aspersed 
without aspersing our client." 

“ No one has aspersed the witness," said the district 
attorney. 

“ You have," shouted Lowe, “ in the most ungentle- 
manlike, cowardly, and dastardly manner ! " 

“ Do you mean to call me a coward and a dastard ? " 
asked the district attorney, his whole frame quivering 
with anger. 

“ Any man," answered Lowe, quite as angry, “ who 
will say to a refined lady, such as Miss Standish is, what 
you have just said, is a coward and a dastard. You 
said it. Therefore you are a coward and a dastard. 
And I am responsible for what I say here or elsewhere. 
You tried to insinuate that this young woman, who is a 
glory to her sex, had done something wrong or indeli- 
cate in becoming engaged in October." 

“ The counsel slanders me ! " said Phillips, shaking 
like a leaf. 

“The counsel slanders himself !" retorted Lowe. 


MARION TELLS HER STORY. 227 

“ This has gone far enough,” said the judge sternly. 
“ Stenographer, read the last question of the district 
attorney ! ” 

“ Well then,” read the stenographer, “ you were en- 
gaged in October, having met Mr. Pemberton only in 
the previous August.” 

The stenographer had given the same intonation to 
the word “ only ” the district attorney had. Mr. 
Phillips was astounded. 

“ Did I use the word f only’ ? ” sternly demanded 
Phillips. 

“ You did,” calmly replied the stenographer. 

“ Well, your Honor,” said the district attorney, hesi- 
tating and stumbling over his words, “ the use of that 
word ‘ only ’ was very improper. It was not my pup 
pose to cast any reflections upon the course of this lady 
in anything she has done — far from it. I respect her 
too highly, but above that she is a woman, distressed, 
unhappy, and anxious, and I hope that the roughness of 
*this world has not hardened me so that I am impervious 
to the appeal all distressed women make to men. I 
regret the use of the word that has put so sinister a con- 
struction upon my question ; it was not intended an'd 
the construction it gives was not intended. I earnestly 
beg the lady’s pardon and present my sincere apologies. 
I withdraw the word.” 

“ And I withdraw the words of ‘ coward ’ and ‘ dastard,’ 
since the counsel makes so honorable a disclaimer.” 

“ Peace, then, is restored,” said the judge sarcastically, 
who thought Lowe had been acting a part. 

But Lowe had made his point. He had wasted some 
time and he had put the district attorney in the wrong. 

Phillips took up the questioning again, but he had 
been greatly disturbed, and matters did not go rightly. 


228 


ON THE RACK. 


“ You recall the events of the last day of the year ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ You received a letter from Mr. Pemberton to meet 
him in Twenty-seventh Street at a certain house ? ” 

“ I received a letter which then I thought to be from 
him.” 

The district attorney was tripped again. 

“ That is what I mean — one purporting to be from 
him ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Have you that letter in your possession ? ” 

“ No. I gave it to Mr. Lowe.” 

“ Ah ! It requested you to meet Mr. Pemberton at 
nine o’clock at No. — Twenty-seventh Street ?” 

“ No sir, at a quarter of nine.” 

“ Ah, yes ! What reason did it give for summoning 
you there ? ” 

“ It said that a matter of the greatest importance 
took Mr. Pemberton there, and that he was in such 
trouble no one could help him but myself, and that as I 
loved him I would come.” 

“ So, supposing the letter to be from him, you went at 
once ? ” 

“ Yes, sir.” 

“ Why did you go alone ? ” 

“ The letter asked me to go alone, but, besides, there 
was no one to go with me. My father was not at home. 
I sent for a carriage at once.” 

“ Ah ! Did you get there at a quarter before nine ?” 

“ No, the carriage was so long in coming that it was 
fully nine before I got there.” 

“ And you met Mr. Pemberton on arriving ?” 

“Yes, happily.” 

“ Did you have no suspicions ? ” 


MARION TELLS HER STORY. 229 

“ No, the writing seemed like Mr. Pemberton’s and it 
was not until I heard it was a forgery that I saw the dif- 
ference.” 

“ But did it not seem strange to you that he should 
summon you there at that hour? ” 

“The letter said he was in trouble. I thought only of 
that.” 

“ But the locality ? Did not that excite your suspi- 
cion ? ” 

“ I knew nothing of it.’* 

“ Nor of its character ?” 

“ No.” 

“On arriving you met Mr. Pemberton; what then oc- 
curred ? ” 

“ He was talking with a policeman and seemed sur- 
prised to see me. I asked him what his letter meant, 
and on taking it from me he went to the carriage lamp, 
where he could read it, and pronounced it a forgery. 
He handed me another letter summoning him to that 
house, to help the writer out of some trouble, and ex- 
claimed : ‘ We are the victims of a vile plot ! ’ I was 

much frightened and confused, and soon after, upon the 
advice of the officer, he put me into the carriage and 
shortly after got in himself and drove away, to take me 
home.” 

“ What then occurred ? ” 

“ Mr. Pemberton was very angry and much excited. 
While looking from the window of the coach, he saw 
some one and made an exclamation, opened the door, 
calling upon the driver to stop, leaping out at the same 
time. I saw him turn the corner in pursuit of a man 
who was flying before him. I therefore told the driver 
to go to the corner and await his return. After some 
time he came back and again got into the carriage.” 


230 


ON THE RACK. 


“ What did he say when he returned ? ** 

“ Nothing. He was much excited and nothing was 
said for some time. Then I asked if that was the man 
who was guilty of plotting against us. He said it was. 
And I asked him who it was. He replied : ‘ Clarence 
Fellows.’ ” • 

“ Was that all ? ” 

“ No. After a while I asked him if it were wise to 
make a scandal on the street. He replied it was not, but 
natural — that he had acted upon the impulse of the mo- 
ment, upon having his suspicions confirmed by seeing 
Mr. Fellows skulking behind a wagon, watching our 
movements.” 

“ Was that all ? ” 

“No. He further said he must punish Fellows, but I 
said he could not do so without involving me in an un- 
pleasant scandal. He said that had not occurred to him 
in his excitement, and it must not be permitted, even if 
Mr. Fellows was allowed to go unpunished.” 

“ Was that all ? ” 

“ All that occurred until we reached my house.” 

“ And then what occurred ? ” 

“I asked him to go in with me, but he declined, saying 
it was late, that he would walk home and thus calm him- 
self. He then went away, promising to come to see me 
early the next day.” 

“ Did he do so ? ” 

“Yes, and spent the day with me.” 

“ Did you know the next day that he had met Fellows 
after he left you ? ” 

“ He did not meet him.” 

“ How do you know ? ” 

“ If he had, he would have told me.” 

This was said so simply and as if it were conclusive, 


MARION’S TRIUMPH. 23 1 

that a kindly ripple of pleased laughter ran around the 
room. 

Mr. Braham made a note. 


CHAPTER XXV. 

Marion's triumph. 

T HE district attorney had now gotten out the whole 
story of the Twenty-seventh Street adventure, had 
shown what great provocation Clarence had given, and 
the motive Frank had for killing Clarence. 

He let the examination rest where it was. Mr. Bra- 
ham arose and bending over, said to Lowe : 

“ I doubt if it is wisdom to prolong the cross-examina- 
tion of Miss Standish.” 

“ It is not,” whispered Lowe. “ Everything she says 
goes against us, even if at the same time she excites sym- 
pathy for us. You can’t get any more than there is 
now.” 

Mr. Braham, with great deference in his tone and man- 
ner, began : 

“Miss Standish, you will pardon my going back to a 
matter, distasteful to you of course — a delicate matter. 
Was Mr. Fellows ever a rival of Mr. Pemberton for your 
hand — were they ever rival suitors ? ” 

“ No ; Mr. Fellows was never a suitor for my hand in 
any way.” 

“ When you were driving home after Mr. Pemberton had 
rejoined you at the corner, where you were waiting for 
him, did he express any regret for his altercation with 
Fellows?” 

“ Yes, sir ; fearing that it would involve me in an un- 


232 


ON THE RACK. 


pleasant publicity. He said my name must be protected 
at all hazards.” 

“ Did Mr. Pemberton recover from his excitement be- 
fore you parted from him ? ” 

“ From his excitement ? Yes.” 

“ He talked rationally and sensibly of your evening’s 
experience.” 

“ Yes.” 

“ You say he spent the whole day with you, the next 
day?” 

“ Yes.” 

“And that you know he did not meet Mr. Fellows 
after he left you ? ” 

“Yes.” 

“ How did you know that ? ” 

“ Because we talked a very longtime over the previous 
night’s events, and if he had, he would have told me.” 

“ But suppose he had, and had harmed Fellows, as is 
charged against him, do you think he would still have 
done so ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Why?” 

“ Because he knew he could trust me, and that I would 
have been true to him no matter what he had done.” 

A murmur of satisfied approval ran around the room 
at this answer, but Marion went on without heeding it. 

“ Because I was more angry and outraged the next day 
over Mr. Fellows’s vile intrigue than I had been the pre- 
vious night, when I only partially realized what it all 
meant. Because I denounced Mr. Fellows strongly then, 
and if he had committed the deed charged against him, 
he would have told me then. But he did not do it, be- 
cause Mr. Pemberton is not a hypocrite, and he would 
have been that day if he had harmed Mr. Fellows, for 


MARION'S TRIUMPH. 233 

both of us believing Mr. Fellows alive we decided on 
a policy with reference to him." 

“ And that was ? " 

“To say and do nothing with reference to his plot, 
unless he made it public, or should make another similar 
attempt, when he should be punished for forgery by law." 

Whether Marion’s vigorous outburst had carried con- 
viction of Frank’s innocence with it or not, certain it was 
it had given great satisfaction and pleasure to the audi- 
ence. Pleased and admiring faces were seen everywhere 
and in the jury-box as well. 

The profpund faith in her lover that she exhibited, 
the consciousness of the trust her lover reposed in her, 
and her glory in it ; her devotion to him, which would be 
devotion to him whether he was right or wrong ; her 
courageous battle for him, and her love and anxiety now 
that he was in trouble, rising triumphantly above the 
petty consideration of whether or not they were shown to 
the public, presented a spectacle appealing most strongly 
to every manly heart in the room. Even the judge 
beamed upon her in admiration. There was no pre- 
tense, no aiming at effect, no affectation about her ; upon 
the contrary, she was simple, earnest, sincere. 

Lowe pulled Braham’s coat to indicate to him that 
there was a good place to leave her. So he said : 

“That is all, Miss Standish." 

The district attorney, fearing that further examination 
would only cause the tide of sympathy for herself and 
Frank to rise higher, indicated he had no further ques- 
tions to ask. 

Lowe was beside her in an instant, ready to escort her 
to her seat. Almost unconsciously she bowed to the dis- 
trict attorney as she rose, causing that gentleman to 
respond, and, turning to the judge, she made him a pro- 


234 


ON THE RACK. 


found obeisance, startling and surprising him into a 
return. 

Her passage across the room was in the nature of a 
triumph, for the lawyers thronging the space, even the 
assistants of the prosecution, rose on the pretense of 
making way for her, but really to testify their admiration 
to a beautiful woman, true and loyal to her lover, who 
had won their hearts. 

Such was the effect of the introduction of a woman, 
who had known no more of the world than was to be 
found within refined households, among the men of con- 
tention and strife. 

After the confusion subsequent upon the retiring of 
Marion from the stand had subsided, the prosecution 
summoned Dalrymple and Cox to testify as to the agita- 
tion of Frank when he appeared at the Union Square 
Hotel at one in the morning, his drinking, and his 
denunciation of Clarence. 

Mr. Braham, by a long cross-examination, tried to 
break the force of their testimony, without effect. 

It was now close upon seven o’clock, and the session 
had been prolonged since two o’clock in the afternoon. 
The people here rested, and Braham asked for an ad- 
journment. 

“ With the exception of one-half hour,” he said, “ we 
have now been in session since ten o’clock — nine hours, 
in a hot, close room. We are wearied, as your Honor 
must be.” 

The court yielded, well pleased that the prosecution 
had gotten in all its testimony in one day; but before the 
order for adjournment was given, the district attorney 
claimed the attention of the court. 

He was not pleased. He was irritated, somewhat 


MARION’S TRIUMPH. 235 

vindictive, and disposed to be revenged on the defense 
for the way fortune had favored it : 

“ May it please your Honor, whatever reason for leni- 
ency in permitting the prisoner to go at large existed 
last week, does not now exist. The trial has begun in 
good faith — that is, upon this side ; witnesses have been 
sworn, testimony taken, and the jury is in possession of 
certain information. It, therefore, appears to me that 
the time has come when this extraordinary leniency should 
end. The prosecution has rested its case, the defense 
knows the charge to its fullest extent, and how well it is 
supported. It knows, what neither your Honor, the jury, 
nor the prosecution know, the sufficiency or the insuffi- 
ciency of its answer. What the defense knows the 
prisoner knows, and if the answer, as we on our part sus- 
pect, is wholly insufficient, then your Honor will perceive 
that now is the time for the prisoner to leave for parts 
unknown if he were so minded.” 

Lowe was on his feet in opposition, but Frank at- 
tracted his attention by pulling at his coat, and whis- 
pered to him. Braham joined in the consultation, and 
evidently acquiesced in whatever it was Frank was urg- 
ing, but against which Lowe protested. 

When they were done, Lowe addressed the court : 

“ Your Honor, I am peremptorily instructed by my 
client to say that he seeks no special favors at the hands 
of the court nor of the prosecution. He seeks only to 
establish his innocence of this monstrous charge, and 
will, while doing this, and only this, despite the insinua- 
tions of the prosecution, cheerfully submit to any rule or 
order the court may in its wisdom deem proper in the 
interests of justice to impose, asking to be distinguished 
in no way from others who have been similarly situated ; 
asking for no especial kindness ; asking only for simple 


236 


ON THE RACK. 


justice. Under his instructions — peremptory instruc- 
tions — I withdraw all opposition to my legal friend’s 
suggestion.” 

There was a faint ripple of applause, quickly sup- 
pressed, and the district attorney wished he had not 
pressed the point so strongly, since the end of his sug- 
gestion was, apparently, an increase of sympathy for 
the prisoner. 

The court ordered the prisoner to be taken into cus- 
tody, and Frank was taken away to the Tombs, to Ma- 
rion’s great distress. 

Colonel Standish hurried after the officer having 
Frank in charge, thrust a bill of large denominations 
into his hands, saying : 

“ Mr. Pemberton is always to ride to and from the 
court room.” 

As the judge left the bench, an acquaintance moving 
over to the district attorney, said : 

“ That Pemberton is a manly fellow.” 

“ Yes,” growled the district attorney, “or else those 
fellows, Lowe and Braham, have gone to further lengths 
in creating effect than they ever did before. They’re a 
pair of play actors.” 

He was in a bad temper. He had made a strong case 
against the prisoner, but had not been able to stem even 
in a small degree the current of sympathy running to- 
ward Frank, and every effort to that end had only re- 
sulted in making it rise higher. 

“ By Heaven ! ” he added, “these fellows are catering 
to this public sympathy, and if it gets into the jury they 
will acquit in the face of the facts. With these fellows 
playing all sorts of theatrical tricks, the administration 
of justice is becoming a farce.” 

Norman came from the press table to Lowe. 


MA RION ' S TRIUMPH. 237 

“ We’ve heard,” said he, “ that is, the office has heard 
from Tom.” 

“ The deuce ! What is it ? ” asked Lowe, interested 
and anxious. 

“ Oh, it is not anything, except to show he is alive, 
busy, and looking for something. He drew on the office 
for some money for expenses.” 

“ Where from, in Heaven’s name ? ” 

“ Southampton, Long Island.” 

“Now what the devil is he doing there?” queried 
Lowe irritably. 

Norman resented the tone as a reflection on Tom. 

“ Whatever he is doing there, he is doing in the inter- 
est of your side. And whatever it is, it is as important 
as anything you’re doing here, and done with as much 
intelligence.” 

“That’s right, Norman,” laughed Braham ; “stand 
fast for your friend. He deserves it, too ! I am glad 
to know, however, that he is all right.” 

At this moment one of Lowe’s clerks appeared and 
presented a letter. It was from Tom. 

Tearing off the envelope Lowe read : 

My Dear Lowe : 

Keep up the delay as long as you can. I see the paper every day 
and follow you. I am on the track of a settler. I may turn up any 
time, but until I do, keep up the delay. 

Yours hurriedly, 

Tom. 

“ Now what the deuce does he mean by a settler ! ” 
grumbled Lowe. “ What do we want with a settler on 
Long Island ? ” 

Braham laughed. 

“ You misunderstand him,” he said. “ He probably 


ON THE RACK. 


238 

is on the track of some information, which, when secured, 
will be a settler in our favor.” 

“ Hum,” growled Lowe, “ why doesn’t he say so then, 
and tell us what it is ? ” - 

“ He’s acting for the best, rest assured,” said Norman. 

“ It is some satisfaction to hear from him,” said Braham. 
“ But I hope his return will not be delayed much longer. 
Time is going.” 

“ Yes ; the prosecution has gotten its evidence all in 
in one day. I counted on two at least,” replied Lowe. 
“ We ought to have been longer about our cross-examina- 
tion.” 

“ We were as long as it was wise to be. The jury be- 
gan to be restless at times. We could have stood the 
restiveness of the court, but to tire out the jury uselessly 
would have been bad policy,” said Braham. 

“No doubt you’re right,” replied Lowe. “ We’ve got 
to rely upon the sympathy excited in the jury.” 

“ True ; we must not shut our eyes to the fact that 
Phillips has made an awfully strong case against our 
client. It is as clear a showing of circumstantial evidence 
as I ever recollect seeing. We have but little with which 
we can break its strength, except sympathy for Pember- 
ton and his love story. The best I hope for is a disa- 
greement.” 

“ We’ll be blessed lucky if we secure that,” said Lowe. 
“ We’ll save his neck and that is all, I fear.” 

“ Dwell on the fact that all the evidence is circumstan- 
tial, and nothing direct, in your opening to-morrow,” re- 
plied Braham. 

“ That reminds me that I want to consult with you as 
to the opening — there are several points upon which it is 
difficult to determine what course to pursue.” 

“ As, for instance ? ” 


THE DEFENSE BEGINS. 


239 


“ I don’t think the identity of the body found was 
established. We can throw doubt upon it by the doubt 
as to the watch. By* Mallon we can prove that Fellows 
had that watch a few moments before twelve, and we 
can ask how Fellows, if it were Fellows, could have ob- 
tained another watch in that time. To make a point of 
this in the opening, and follow it up by strong evidence, 
will, however, set Phillips up to rebutting it.” 

“ Don’t do it, then ! However, come over to the office 
and we’ll talk it over.” 

In the mean time Marion had gone to Mrs. Pemberton 
to break as gently as possible to the old lady the news 
of Frank’s confinement. She had promised Frank to do 
this. 


CHAPTER XXVI. 

THE DEFENSE BEGINS. 

I N their desire to avoid the crowd, Marion and her 
father arrived early at the court-room. But as early 
as they were, the crowd was before them. The fact that 
the prosecution had rested, and that the defense was to 
open, had increased the interest. The seats for the pub- 
lic were already filled by eager spectators, many of 
whom were seated within the rail. 

Frank had been brought also early from the Tombs. 
As he entered, forgetful of all else than her deep affec- 
tion for Frank, Marion rose to greet him, her eyes beam- 
ing with tenderness and compassion. 

The hand she extended to him was ungloved, and 
Frank, also forgetful of all else than the divine pity 


240 


ON THE RACK. 


showing in her eyes, bent over and impressed upon it a 
kiss. 

An admiring murmur from the crowded room followed 
this stately and unconscious ceremony. 

Colonel Standish, standing up, greeted Frank warmly, 
and the three, cynosures of all eyes, were oblivious to the 
fact that they were such conspicuous figures in the 
room. 

There was some confusion as way was made by the 
attendants for some one through the crowd. Colonel 
Standish, observant of it, exclaimed aloud. 

Frank and Marion turned, and to their amazement saw 
Mrs. Pemberton, escorted by the elder Mr. Whitney. 

Frank had used all his powers of persuasion to induce 
his mother to remain away from the trial, for he knew 
much would be said that would outrage her. But when 
he was again taken into custody she had been greatly 
alarmed, and could no longer stay at home. 

And so, for the first time since the trial began, perhaps 
for the first time in all her life, she made her appearance 
in court. 

A tall, stately woman, she was little bent with the 
weight of her years. Her hair, white, lying in ripples 
upon a well formed head ; her skin, wonderfully white for 
so aged a woman ; her eyes dark and glowing, still un- 
dimmed ; her cheeks naturally inclined to be pink, now 
red with exertion and excitement, she presented a most 
gracious picture of beautiful old age. 

Marion and Frank together advanced hastily to meet 
her. She kissed Frank unostentatiously and also Marion. 
Then she greeted Colonel Standish. 

“ Mrs. Pemberton addressed a note to me last even- 
ing,” said Mr. Whitney, “asking me if I would bring her 
to court this morning. I called on my way here, with 


THE DEFENSE BEGINS. 


2\t 

the intention of dissuading her, but she was determined; 
and as I was never, in all my life, able to withstand the 
appeal of beauty, I succumbed and here she is.” 

He had said this gayly, and they all laughed over the 
pretty compliment to the old lady. 

It was not surprising that the rumor spread rapidly 
that the handsome old woman was the mother of the 
prisoner, for the resemblance between mother and son 
was marked. 

Lowe and Braham came in and were presented to Mrs. 
Pemberton. 

“ Not a bad idea,” said Lowe to Braham. “ Her ap- 
pearance will help to-day. Can’t we scare up a beautiful 
sister for to-morrow ? ” 

Norman came over to Lowe. 

“ Heard anything from Tom ? ” he asked. 

“ Not a word, hang him,” replied the lawyer. 

“ Well I have. I received a telegram from him late 
last night telling me to have a cab in waiting for him at 
the Thirty-fourth Street ferry early this morning, and 
have it wait until he came, no matter when.” 

“ Ah, then we can expect him soon ! ” 

The judge entered, and Norman went back to his seat. 

Lowe began his opening. It was evident he had pre- 
pared himself. It was, moreover, evident from the 
beginning that he was appealing more to the hearts and 
emotions of the jurors than to their reasons. He began 
with the entrance of the two — Frank and Clarence — into 
the house of Evans, Whitney & Co.; he dwelt on their 
friendship and drew a charming picture of boyish devo- 
tion to each other, bringing it up, unbroken, to the years 
of their manhood ; he analyzed the natures of each, and 
told in glowing terms what a devoted son Frank had 
been, making a most winsome portrait of him ; he traced 


242 


ON THE RACK . 


the growth of the young men in usefulness to the house 
employing them, until they were admitted to the con- 
cern as partners. In all this he was always ornate and 
sometimes eloquent. 

Then he told of the meeting of Clarence with Marion 
and his affection for her, undeclared and unreciprocated 
and passed on to her subsequent meeting with Frank at 
Nahant. Of Clarence’s affection, he said : 

“ It was quite in keeping with Fellows’s nature that he 
should have loved and refrained from telling his love. 
He was a secretive man, accustomed to conceal his emo- 
tions and passions ; a cautious man, weighing well every 
step he took — qualities which made him valuable in the 
business world — but qualities which, in that world pre- 
sided over by Cupid, do not win success. He suffered 
as all laggards in love suffer — he failed to secure the ob- 
ject of his love.” 

Then making the point strongly, that when Frank met 
Marion at Nahant he did not know Clarence had ever 
met her, and that Marion was not aware the two were 
acquainted, he went on to describe the difference be- 
tween Frank’s suit and that of Clarence’s, and in terms 
certainly open to the charge of extravagance. 

“ No laggard in love was he,” said he of Frank. 
“ Ardor was on his brow, love in his eyes, persuasion on 
his tongue. The idyl of their lives began. Frank, 
where the other was secretive ; impulsive, where the 
other was cautious, he declared his love, and won. You 
heard the echo of the carols sung in that young woman’s 
heart in those August days, on the golden sands of the 
ocean side, when she told you yesterday, in simple words 
and with womanly earnestness, that she joyed in the at- 
tentions of Pemberton, for she loved him.” 

Of Marion, he said : “ She is a beautiful and charming 


THE DEFENSE BEGINS. 


243 


young woman — one of those women, who, when you 
meet her, make you bewail your wasted youth and mourn 
the old age that is upon you ; one of those women whose 
charms of person, graces of mind, and rare virtues of 
character lead us to think that she is one of those 
radiant creatures that people the paradise we all hope to 
gain when our struggle here below is done, and loaned 
to us awhile, to suggest the glories of the hereafter ! ” 

His manner was earnest and impressive, his voice rich 
and musical, and he interested his auditors, so his ex- 
travagance and want of good taste, especially in his 
reference to Marion, was accepted. His purpose, how- 
ever, was clear. His aim was to enlist the sympathies of 
the jury and to erect a picture of Frank, which in the 
minds of the jurors could not be disassociated from 
Marion, and to invest both with all the romance there was 
in their love story. 

Having accomplished this, he went on to give a graphic 
and somewhat theatrical description of Clarence’s intrigue 
against Frank and Marion, and its happy frustration, 
followed by the altercation on Sixth Avenue. 

“ Lowe has no defense,” said a shrewd lawyer to his 
neighbor. “ He is laboring for a disagreement or a 
light sentence.” 

His neighbor agreed with him. 

But Lowe, almost as if answering the shrewd lawyer’s 
whisper, in a few emphatic and vigorous sentences, af- 
firmed the innocence of the prisoner, and set forth, cer- 
tainly with audacity, what proof would be given by the 
witnesses of the defense to sustain his affirmation. His 
peroration was an appeal to the jury not to be misled by 
evidence which was purely circumstantial and not in any 
degree direct. 

He had spoken for two hours and had held his audi- 


244 


ON THE RACK. 


tors in rapt attention. When he sat down, the room, 
which had been almost quiet, was filled again with the 
noises of many people. 

His speech had puzzled the lawyers. They had ex- 
pected to hear a theory of defense presented. There had 
been none — nothing but a dogmatic assertion of the 
prisoner’s innocence and a promise to prove it. The 
shrewd lawyer, quoted before, said to his neighbor that 
it was the most singular opening he had ever heard, and 
that with a change in color and spirit it would have 
served the prosecution as well. Nor could others under- 
stand why Lowe had been at such pains to bring out in 
the strongest light the grave provocation Frank had re- 
ceived, and in which would be found the motive for the 
deed. 

Frank was called to the stand. He was the first 
witness sworn for the defense. The crowded room set- 
tled again into close attention. 

He modestly made his way to the stand and faced the 
crowded room. His manner pleaded for him as well as 
his appearance — frank, manly, and handsome, he was cool 
and self-possessed. He showed that he recognized the 
gravity of his position, but discovered no fear. There 
was in his bearing no self-assertion, and neither was there 
self-repression. 

Lowe conducted the examination. Under his skillful 
leading he induced Frank to tell of his life, his habits, 
his pursuits, and his long friendship for Clarence; he 
gently urged him along until he had Frank telling his own 
love story before he was fully aware he was in it, and 
brought him through the attempted plot of Clarence and 
its immediate consequences. 

In his reference to Marion, there was a deference in 
Frank’s words and tone which won him much silent ap- 


THE DEFENSE BEGINS. 


245 


plause from the auditors. The only emotion he dis- 
played was, when he described the intrigue of Clarence 
and the great danger run by Marion. He told the tale 
of his altercation with Clarence that night, making no 
effort to spare himself, but reciting every incident con- 
nected with it which he could recollect, excusing nor 
palliating nothing. 

When he had told the whole story of that night, even 
of his meeting with Cox and Dalrymple at the Union 
Square Hotel, Lowe began to ask questions. 

“You must have had a purpose in taking so long a 
walk at that unusual hour?” 

“ I had. I had been much excited that evening and 
wanted to calm myself by exercise.” 

“ Was your excitement the result of your altercation 
with Mr. Fellows ? ” 

“ Not of that alone — all of the events of the evening 
had contributed to my agitation ; the vile attempt to in- 
jure the fair name of the young lady, the altercation, the 
realization that the friend I had loved and trusted so 
many years could do such a thing, the revelation of a 
black and malign side of that friend which I had never 
before suspected and which appalled me, the narrow es- 
cape of the woman I had vowed to love and protect, and 
who had yet come into that danger through her associa- 
tion with me — all these things crowded upon my mind in 
a short space of time, disturbed me greatly.” 

“ Did you meet with any one during that walk you 
knew or who knew you ? ” 

“ Not that I am aware of. I was absorbed in thought.” 

“ Nor any incidents ? ” 

“A few only. When I hesitated, as I reached the park, 
a coachman tried to induce me to ride ; at Delinonico’s, 
I met a gay dinner party coming out to take their car- 


246 


ON THE RACK. 


riages ; at Twenty-third Street, I saw two hackmen 
quarreling under the great light because one had grazed 
the cab of the other.” 

“ That was all ? ” 

‘‘All, until I reached the Union Square Hotel.” 

“ Did you enter the hotel with your friends ? ” 

“ Yes, and went to the bar with them ? ” 

“ Did you drink ? ” 
u Yes — several times.” 

“ Is it your habit to drink much ? ” 

“ No, sir ; I drink very little. I drank then because I 
was agitated ai)d trembling, and I thought to steady my 
nerves.” 

“You denounced Fellows to these friends ? ” 

“ Yes. When they mentioned his name, I thought of 
his dastardly plot, and I spoke as I felt at the moment.” 
“ When you left them, where did you go ?” 

“To my home in Fourteenth Street.” 

“ When did you last see Clarence Fellows ? ” 

“ On the 31st day of December last, about ten o’clock, 
on Sixth Avenue, between Twenty-sixth and Twenty- 
seventh Streets.” 

“ Have you seen him since ?” 

“ No, sir.” 

“ Did you not see him in Twentieth Street, in that part 
called Gramercy Park ? ” 

“ No, sir. I have not been in Twentieth Street since 
last November.” 

“ Then you are not responsible for the death of Clar- 
ence Fellows ? ” 

Until now Frank had maintained an easy, though an 
acutely attentive attitude, answering all the questions 
promptly without a single attempt at evasion, and ap- 
parently without regard as to whether his answers aided 


THE DEFENSE BEGINS. 


247 


or damaged his case — as if his aim were to tell the whole 
truth. When this question was put to him he straight- 
ened up, head erect and slightly raised, and with his 
right arm partially uplifted he said, most solemnly, and 
with a force and effect felt by all : 

“ As God is my witness, I am not responsible for the 
death of Clarence Fellows. I have never harmed Clar- 
ence Fellows, directly or remotely. I did try to strike 
him, in my anger, on Sixth Avenue, but was prevented. 
I did him no harm, however, then, nor afterward, nor 
ever before.” 

There was v a suppressed murmur from the crowded 
room. Lowe did not spoil the effect of the answer by 
asking the next question too quickly. 

“ A revolver was found, near the body of the man 
found in Twentieth Street, with your name upon it.” 

“ I owned a similar revolver.” 

Mr. Lowe showed him the one found on the pavement. 

“ Is that the one ? ” 

Frank glanced at it and replied promptly : 

“Yes, this is mine. It was given to me by a fellow 
clerk two years ago, when I was going to the mountains.” 

“ Has it been in your possession since?” 

“ No ; a year ago I think — yes, a year ago last month, 
Mr. Fellows was in my room at my home in Fourteenth 
Street ” 

He suddenly hesitated. Lowe, narrowly watching him, 
saw an expression flit over his face, followed by a sudden 
lighting up of his whole face. Before he could say any- 
thing, however, Frank went on : 

“ Mr. Fellows saw the revolver on my table, and taking 
it up, expressed a desire to have one, as he frequently 
walked through lonely streets at a late hour. I told him 
I had little — indeed, no use for one, and that he might 


248 


ON THE RACK. 


carry mine if he desired. He took it with him, and I 
have never seen it since until now. There was another 
person in the room at the time.” 

Lowe was surprised at the last sentence. Frank had 
never told him that another person was present, and he 
now understood Frank’s hesitation and the lighting up 
of his face. It had then only been recalled to Frank’s 
mind. 

“ Who was that person ? ” 

“Alfred Lawrence.” 

“ Does he reside in the city ? ” 

“ He does business here, but resides in Yonkers.” 
Lowe now turned the witness over to Phillips, the dis- 
trict attorney. Before the cross-examination could be 
begun, a recess was ordered. 


CHAPTER XXVII. 

ON THE RACK. 

W HEN the court reassembled, Frank resumed the 
stand. Phillips felt that Frank had made a most 
excellent impression upon the jury, and set out with the 
determination to destroy that impression. He soon dis- 
covered, however, that it was not an easy matter to con- 
fuse Frank or to involve him in contradictions. Frank 
had told a truthful and straightforward story upon the 
direct examination. He had concealed nothing, evaded 
nothing, held nothing back, and he had no dangerous 
points to guard against. His answers to the district 
attorney, therefore, were as freely and promptly given 


ON THE RACK. 


249 


as had been those to the questions of his own counsel. 
He was too intelligent and clear-headed to be confused, 
and he could not be made to vary from his story in any 
essential particular. Though he was much embittered 
against the district attorney, who, he thought, had pur- 
sued him with unnecessary malignity, yet he did not per- 
mit his feelings to be discovered by his tone and manner. 
He was polite, respectful, and dignified in his answers, 
even when the questions were asked in an arrogant and 
supercilious tone, such as might have been employed to 
one who was well known to be a criminal. 

When he was finally dismissed, and had resumed his 
seat, Braham whispered approvingly : 

“You are a model witness. You have made a most 
excellent impression. I have sent for Lawrence.” 

The coachman who had seen Frank walking up Fifth 
Avenue, some time after he had left Frank and Marion 
at the latter’s door, on the last night of the year, after 
having brought them from Twenty-seventh Street, was 
sworn and testified. 

Then Mr. Whitehead came to the stand and told of the 
man he had seen crossing Fourth Avenue, between 
twelve and one, muttering to himself, and a few minutes 
after he had passed down Twentieth Street had heard a 
muffled sound, which so much resembled a pistol shot 
and yet which did not. 

Then came an episode which greatly interested the 
room and piqued the curiosity of the prosecution, if it 
did no more. 

Baynum was called to the stand. 

Lowe elicited the facts as to his position with Evans, 
Whitney & Co., and the close relations he had had with 
Fellows for many years. Then obtaining the watch which 
had been found upon the body of Clarence when taken 


25 ° 


ON THE RACK . 


to the station-house, Lowe asked, as he handed it to the 
witness : 

“ Did you ever see that watch before ? ” 

“ No, sir.” 

“ Nor the chain ? ” 

“No, sir.” 

“ You are quite sure of it ? ” 

“I am quite sure of it.” 

“Are you willing to swear that watch was not carried 
by Mr. Fellows habitually ?” 

“ I know it was not. I am willing to so swear.” 

“ Did he never carry that watch ? ” 

“ I saw him nearly every day for seven years, and I 
never saw him carry that one.” 

“In your recollection, how many watches has Mr. Fel- 
lows carried ? ” 

“ Two. When I first knew him he had a silver watch, 
which he carried until he bought a gold one. The 
silver watch he gave to one of the boys in the depart- 
ment, who carries it yet.” 

“ And the gold one was not this one ?” 

« No, sir.” 

Lowe then produced the watch he had obtained from 
Moses Mandelbaum, and passed it to Baynum. 

“ Witness,” he said, “ look at that watch and chain 
and tell me whether you have ever seen them before.” 

“I have. This is Mr. Fellows’s watch and chain.” 

There was increased interest upon the part of every- 
body. The jury leaned forward in their seats. 

“ The gold one he bought and wore after he had given 
the silver one away ?” 

“ Yes, sir.” 

“You are sure of this?” 

“ I am,” 


ON THE RACK. 25 1 

“When did you last see this in Mr. Fellows’s posses- 
sion ? ” 

“ At five o’clock on the 31st day of last December.” 

“ You are very precise. How is it that your recollec- 
tion is so exact ? ” 

“ 1 am the successor of Mr. Fellows as the head of 
the department he had charge of for five years. Shortly 
before five o’clock on that day, in the presence of all the 
clerks, he turned over the department to me and intro- 
duced me as the new chief. When the ceremonies, such 
as they were, were over, he took his watch from his 
pocket, opened it, said it was five o’clock and he must 
hurry to an engagement. I, who had always admired 
the watch, said, laughingly : ‘ Mr. Fellows, in leaving 

this department to me, I wish you could also leave that 
watch.’ This impressed the time on my mind.” 

“ That was on the 31st day of last December. He 
was said to have been killed eight hours later, wasn’t he ? ” 

“ I so understand it.” 

The direct examination here ended. The district at- 
torney now took Baynum in hand, but could not shake 
him in any respect. 

Lowe next examined the clerk who also recollected 
the watch, and brought out the fact that on two occa- 
sions he had carried the watch to a jeweler’s for repairs, 
and had on the last occasion taken the number, which 
was established by reference to his memorandum book. 
The district attorney, puzzled as to what all this por- 
tended, did not cross-examine, quite evidently to Lowe’s 
disappointment. 

“ Thomas Mallon,” cried Lowe. 

This was his surprise, and Thomas was the redoubt- 
able “ Bucky ” Mallon, who rose with a swagger from 
, between two officers, and took the witness stand. 


252 


ON THE RACK. 


“ Your name is Thomas Mallon, commonly called 
*Bucky’?” 

“ That’s right,” replied the hero of the streets, as he 
crossed and recrossed his legs. 

“ And your occupation is what ? ” 

“ I’m a brass worker.” 

“ Did you know the deceased, Clarence Fellows ? ” 

“ I did.” 

“ When did you know him ? ” 

“ Me boss hed a job from him two years ago and I set 
it up for him.” 

“ When did you last see him ? ” 

“ New Year’s Eve.” 

“ At what time ? ” 

“ It was just before midnight.” 

“ Where?” 

“ He wos sittin’ on de kerbstone, wid his back agin a 
lamp in Market Street, right dere by Chatham Square.” 

A very decided sensation in the court. Here was the 
surprise the lawyers had been looking for. At last, here 
was the defense the prosecution had been looking for. 
There was a movement among the spectators. Evi- 
dently a revelation was at hand. 

“ Did you speak to him ? ” 

“Naw. I taut de cull wos on a budge. He wos 
lookin’ up in de sky.” 

“ On a what ?” asked the judge in displeased amaze- 
ment. 

“ On a drunk, yer riverence.” 

“Oh!” 

“ What did you do ? ” 

“ I didn’t do nothin’. I passed him by an’ sed to a 
pal o’ mine, he’ll git his ticker lifted if he ain’t careful. 
Den we went on de udder corner opposite,” 


ON THE RACK. 


253 


“ Well what occurred then ? ” 

“ A feller came along and seed him. By and by, he 
stoops down and talks to him, but Fellers don’t talk back, 
and de first we knowed he lifted Fellers’s watch and chain 
and run off, we a hollering after him.” 

“ Do you know who it was ? ” 

“ Yep.” 

“ Who was it ? ” 

“ A feller called ‘ Corkey ’ Thomas.” 

“ Where is he now ? ” 

“ In quod in Filydelphy.” 

“ In what?” again asked the judge. 

“ Doing time in jail, your riverence.” 

“ That’s all,” said Lowe. 

Phillips gave “ Bucky ” Mallon a most uncomfortable 
half hour in his endeavor to make the young ruffian 
admit that he had participated and benefited in the rob- 
bery, and to otherwise discredit his testimony. Though 
Phillips was unable to do so, it was nevertheless a difficult 
position for “ Bucky,” who had a great deal to conceal, 
not only so far as himself was concerned, but for others 
of his own particular companions who were involved as 
well as the man Thomas. He found his ingenuity 
severely taxed, but with a little judicious perjury he came 
off free from harm, with the essentials of his testimony 
unshaken. 

Much amusement was occasioned by this passage be- 
tween the district attorney and the witness. 

“ After Thomas ran away with the watch, what became 
of it ? ” 

“I dunno. I didn’t see him again.” 

“ How did the watch and chain get into the possession 
of the defense ? ” 

“Bucky” was puzzled and feared Lowe had, contrary 


254 


ON THE RACK. 


to his promise, revealed where he had obtained the watch 
With great caution “ Bucky ” replied: 

“ I spose he shuved it.” 

“ Now witness,” said Phillips irritably, “ what do you 
mean by that answer — by such jargon ? ” 

“ I mean dat I spose dat Thomas shuved it up de 
spout.” 

The audience began to laugh, and Lowe, who had 
early perceived that “Bucky” had mistaken the district 
attorney’s reference to himself under the term of “de- 
fense,” for reference to Mandelbaum under the slang 
term of “ fence,” chuckled audibly. 

The district attorney was confused, and thought the 
witness was making fun at his expense. So he said 
angrily : 

“ I presume you are a very funny man and that your 
reply is very funny — at all events it makes the prisoner’s 
counsel laugh — but suppose you answer my question. 
How did that watch and chain come into the possession 
of Mr. Lowe ? ” 

“ Oh,” said “ Bucky ” ; “I taut you wos a-talkin’ about 
a ‘ fence ’ ? Oh, I dunno how he got it.” 

Then his eyes twinkled with humor, and he seemed 
about to say something which he repressed. 

“ Well,” said the district attorney, “ you were about to 
say something further — what was it ?” 

“ I wos goin’ to say that praps Mr. Lowe wos de 
‘ fence.’ ” 

The room roared. 

“ Notwithstanding your very vile pun,” said the dis- 
trict attorney, “ I perceive you have a tolerably clear per- 
ception of that distinguished lawyer’s moral status. That 
will do. You may go.” 

As “ Bucky ” rose, Lowe, detaining him, said : 


ON THE RACK. 


255 


“ Mallon, from your experience on the streets, which I 
assume to be large and varied, can you tell me how a 
man, robbed at midnight on Market Street near Chatham 
Square of watch and chain, could, in order to be killed 
with one in his pocket in Twentieth Street an hour later, 
provide himself with another one in the mean time? ” 

Mallon stared in puzzled amazement over the question, 
failing to appreciate that Lowe was making an argument, 
at this time when arguments were not permitted, most 
adroitly and ingenuously, at a moment when the point 
was warm. However, recovering himself, Mallon grinned 
and replied : 

“ He might a touched some udder bloke fer one, on 
his way up.” 

“ Ah,” replied Lowe sarcastically, “ that easy method 
did not occur to me.” 

Mallon retired from the stand amid general laughter. 
As he was taken back to the Tombs, he was a very proud 
man. He had appeared as a witness in the celebrated 
Pemberton-Fellows trial and had covered himself with 
credit, for he had testified to what Mr. Lowe desired, had 
not told on any of his companions yet at large, and had 
made the room laugh. In his own eyes he was a hero, and 
there was increased swagger in his walk. 

Had Phillips known that Mallon had been brought 
from the Tombs to testify, it is to be very much doubted 
whether he would have gotten off so easily. He did 
not, and therein lay Mallon’s good fortune. 

At this moment Alfred Lawrence, who had been sent 
for, came in and substantiated Frank’s statement as to 
having given the pistol a year previously to Fellows. 

Lowe and Braham consulted a moment or two, when 
Lowe addressed the court. 

“Your Honor, the defense has another witness which it 


ON THE RACK. 


256 

was unable to subpoena before he left town. His where- 
abouts is not precisely known, but his return has been 
daily, indeed hourly expected for some time. The point 
he is to testify to is essential. With that exception the 
defense is ready to rest.” 

The room was surprised — the lawyers especially. 
Many had already suspected that the defense was weak, 
but it was far weaker than had been supposed even by 
the prosecution. There was a surprised murmur over 
the court room, in which there was apparently a quality 
of pity. 

The judge said : 

“ The hour is late and excellent progress has been made 
to-day. The court will adjourn until to-morrow morning 
at ten. Perhaps your witness will be present then. If not, 
we can then make provision for the taking of his testi- 
mony.” 

The crowd then slowly dispersed, much disappointed 
as to the outcome of the testimony for the defense, leav- 
ing the stanch friends of the prisoner worried and appre- 
hensive, for the disappointment shown was unmistakable 
and was felt by them, and leaving, also, the prosecution 
delighted at the favorable prospects to themselves. 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 

SUMMING UP. 

'T'HE witness referred to by Lowe was, of course, Tom 
1 Bryan. What he might have to testify to no one 
knew, but presuming from such information as had been 
received, that, whatever it was he was seeking, it was es- 
sential, Lowe had said so to the court. 


SUMMING UP . 


257 


Both Braham and Lowe made sure that something defi- 
nite would be heard from Tom before the opening of the 
court the next morning. They did not base their belief 
so much upon the fact that Tom had ordered a carriage 
to be in waiting for him at the Thirty-fourth Street ferry, 
as upon the other fact that Tom, as he had written Lowe, 
followed the case in the papers and must know that it 
was nearing its end. 

To Frank and his friends, Lowe and Braham had as- 
sumed to be confident of an acquittal, but to each other, 
however, they did not disguise the fact that Tom was 
their sole reliance for that end. If he failed them, the 
best they thought they were justified in hoping for was a 
disagreement, but really expected a verdict of murder in 
the second degree or manslaughter. 

Their conduct of the case showed that they were aim- 
ing for a disagreement. Lawyers saw this before the 
summing up began, even if the spectators did not. 

Marion had lost heart, though she bravely concealed 
her fears from Frank. But curiously enough, Frank, 
who had been discouraged before the trial began, had be- 
come more hopeful as it progressed — hopeful of acquittal 
— nothing less would have satisfied him. 

Colonel Standish was not deceived. He had realized 
only too well the weakness of the defense, and had per- 
ceived how much the lawyers relied upon circumstantial 
evidence, and with what importance they invested it. 
To a very considerable extent, Marion’s discouragement 
was due to this, for her father had thought it his duty to 
prepare his daughter for the disappointment of the 
end. 

Of all the friends about Frank, his mother was the 
only one wholly confident as to the result. And no one 
could find it in his heart to destroy her sublime faith. 


ON THE RACK . 


258 

This was the condition of mind all were in, when they 
gathered at the court-room for the last day of the trial. 

The district attorney was confident of a verdict in his 
favor, but warned his deputies not to expect a verdict of 
murder in the first degree. 

“ Never,” said he, “ have Lowe and Braham conducted 
a trial with greater skill. They have had absolutely 
nothing to go upon, yet they have worked up a sympathy 
for Pemberton, surpassing anything of the kind I have 
ever known. They have saved Pemberton’s life, and 
yet, though they have shown marvelous ability, I doubt 
if this case will contribute anything to the increase of 
their reputation, because public sympathy demands an 
acquittal and will blame counsel for failing to obtain it. 
Actually, with nothing whatever to build upon, they have 
brought this case to a point, when there are men in this 
room, even lawyers, speculating as to whether the verdict 
will be guilty or not guilty.” * 

This was said while waiting for the judge to enter. 
In the mean time, Lowe and Braham were in earnest 
consultation. They determined to make the effort to 
gain another day by asking an adjournment, pending 
the arrival of their missing witness ; if that was not 
granted, as they did not believe it would be, then they 
would pose as martyrs, and go on with the summing up. 

Because of the display of oratory expected, the room 
was more crowded than upon any previous day. 

The judge entered, and, as soon as order was obtained, 
Lowe rose and addressed the court. 

“ May it please your Honor,” he said, “ the witness 
whom we so anxiously desire to put upon the stand has 
not yet arrived. Indeed, we have no exact knowledge of 
his movements. But there are certain indications which 
justify us in the belief that his return will not be delayed 


SUMMING UP. 


2 59 


over the present day. In view of this fact, in view of 
the brief time in which both sides have conducted the 
case, and in view of the unusual fact that in the opening 
and taking of testimony in a case of this importance but 
two days have been consumed, the defense has deter- 
mined to ask your Honor to adjourn the court until 
to-morrow morning, believing that justice to the prisoner 
demands and that common humanity dictates it.” 

The district attorney protested against such tactics, 
pronouncing the request as unusual and unheard of, and 
was interrupted by Lowe, who remarked that nothing 
was unusual when a man’s life was at stake. 

The district attorney, not heeding the interruption, 
went on to say that if the defense had used ordinary 
energy it could have secured the attendance of the wit- 
ness, but, in his judgment, it was a mere device for 
delay, the same tactics counsel for the defense had em- 
ployed from the beginning, and now, finding the end at 
hand, were making another effort, based upon the flimsy 
pretext of a witness whose presence could not be secured. 

Lowe said in response that their embarrassment was 
that their witness had left town before he could be 
subpoenaed, and that, strange as it might appear, never- 
theless it was true, had gone leaving no trace behind 
him, and therefore it had been impossible to even com- 
municate with him. He had left town without warning, 
on an instant’s summons, not even informing his employ- 
ers of his destination or the extent of his travels. 

The district attorney had heard of Tom’s mysterious 
departure, and jumped to the conclusion that he was the 
missing witness. 

“ Oh, your Honor,” he cried, “ it is that reporter Bry- 
an, of the Sol, over whom they are making this conten- 
tion. He knows nothing of this case.” 


26 o 


ON THE RACK, \ 


Nettled that Phillips should have so accurately guessed, 
Lowe retorted sharply : 

“ My learned friend,” he said most sarcastically, “ seems 
to know more as to what our witnesses are to testify to 
than he does as to his own.” 

This pointed allusion to Dr. Elwell’s testimony caused 
a ripple of laughter, which was repressed, and the judge 
said to Lowe : 

“ Is the testimony of the witness of so essential a na- 
ture as to endanger the interests of the prisoner in its 
absence? ” 

“ What impression it may make on the jury I am of 
course unable to affirm. However, we judge it to be 
most essential.” 

The judge pondered, and finally said : 

“The court does not see its way to the ordering of 
an adjournment. The summing up must be proceeded 
with.” 

An exception was taken, and Braham arose to begin 
his speech. 

Again the lawyers were surprised. In his statement 
of the case, Braham seemed to be acting for the prose- 
cution. He brought out into bold relief every point which 
told against Frank ; he concealed nothing and palliated 
nothing. He was fully as dramatic and graphic in his 
statement of Fellows’s intrigue as Lowe had been in the 
opening of the defense. The judge was amazed and 
the district attorney could not refrain from admitting to 
himself that he could not state his own case more strongly. 

When he had finished this part of his address, Braham 
paused, as if he were reviewing his words, but in a mo- 
ment or two went on to say : 

“ I think I have stated the whole case of the prosecu- 
tion. Perhaps not with the skill and eloquence of my 


SUMMING UP. 


261 


learned opponent, but certainly fairly, from his stand- 
point, concealing nothing and softening nothing. And 
I would call the attention of the jury to the fact that in 
this statement there is not one iota of direct evidence, 
no matter how slight or unimportant it may be, going 
to sustain the theory that Fellows was killed by the pris- 
oner. All of this evidence produced by the prosecu- 
tion is purely theoretical — wholly, absolutely and une- 
quivocally theoretical. I submit that no one single fact 
has been presented to you that sustains the idea that 
Pemberton shot Fellows. Study the transcript of the 
evidence made by the stenographer, and however much 
time you may devote to an analysis of it, you will be un- 
able to find a single fact directly sustaining the charge. 
It is purely circumstantial — purely theoretical.” 

He now devoted himself to a strong and adroit argu- 
ment as to the dangers of relying upon circumstantial 
evidence wholly unsupported by anything direct. He 
did not care what had been written upon it by the minds 
of the past. It was a matter of indifference to him what 
had been uttered by the bench in the past ; he cared not 
what theories had been entertained in the past or were 
now, the idea that a jury could be asked to deprive a 
man of his life, or his liberty, even for one day, upon a 
showing of circumstantial evidence, unsupported by a 
single direct fact, was repugnant to his sense of justice, 
and he knew, as every thoughtful and intelligent man 
knew, he was supported by public sentiment. He de- 
clared that in this day of civilization and culture and 
broadened thought, it was a monstrous proposition that 
a man could be deprived of his life by such evidence ; 
moreover, it was a deliberate insult to the intelligence of 
twelve men, summoned as a jury, to suppose that they 
would be willing to tread backward the pathway of cen- 


262 


ON THE RACK . 


turies, and accept a theory which was barbarous even in 
a barbarous age. 

He had evidently devoted a great deal of research to 
the subject, for he cited case after case where time had 
shown that the convicted man had been erroneously 
convicted upon such kind of evidence, and where judi- 
cial murder had been committed. This part of his 
argument he clinched with a most telling and forceful 
question. “ Tell me,” he demanded, “ who will, and 
who can, that every man so convicted was not murdered 
judicially ! Who knows ? Where is the proof ? Point 
to a single instance where subsequent time has shown 
that such a verdict was just and God*given ! ” 

Then, drawing himself up to a full length, and raising 
an uplifted arm, with shaking fingers, said most impress- 
ively : “ I dare affirm that the blood is on the hands of 
every person connected with the foul wrong of sending 
to the gallows a brother upon circumstantial evidence, 
and that alone. The evidence which seeks to send this 
prisoner to the gallows is circumstantial evidence, and 
that alone ! ” 

This produced a sensation, and the judge was clearly 
displeased. 

Then Braham passed on to an analysis of the evidence. 
He insisted that it had not been sufficiently proven that 
Fellows had been killed by any other hand than his own. 
It was purely an assumption that he had been killed by 
some one else, and that the only evidence worthy of con- 
sideration upon the subject was that of the police sur- 
geon, who, with expert and experienced eyes, had pro- 
nounced at once and without hesitation, upon seeing the 
body, that it was a case of suicide, and that evidence 
had not been controverted in the slightest degree. And 
to sustain the theory of Dr. Elwell was the evidence of 


SUMMING UP. 


263 


the witness Whitehead, who had seen a man, shortly be- 
fore one o’clock, cross Fourth Avenue, who attracted 
his attention by his wild manner and mutterings to him- 
self — who passed into Twentieth Street walking down 
on the same side as that on which the body had been 
found, and when he had gone far enough to be where 
that body was found, he heard a noise which he would 
have thought was the report of a pistol, if the sound had 
not been muffled. Dr. Elwell had said that the pistol 
barrel had been closely pressed to the temple, and this 
would account for the muffled sound. 

After this he asserted that the police were the authors 
of the theory that Peftiberton had killed Fellows. Why ? 
Because a pistol with Pemberton’s name on it had been 
found near the body. Upon this assumption the theory 
of the prosecution had been builded, yet the jury had 
been told, and the story was substantiated, that that 
pistol had been in the hands of the man Fellows for 
nearly a year, and if the theory of Dr. Elwell was cor- 
rect it was with that pistol the man found had com- 
mitted suicide. 

Passing to his next point, he declared that there was 
not sufficient proof before the jury that the body found 
was that of Fellows. If it was, how was it that a watch and 
chain was found in his pockets, nobody of those most inti- 
mately connected with Fellows, had ever seen him carry, 
while the watch and chain he wore habitually had been pro- 
duced in court, had been identified as being worn by Fel- 
lows on the last day of his life, and as having been stolen 
from him an hour before it was alleged he had been killed, in 
a part of the town remote from the scene of the murder 
or the suicide, whichever it might be ? How was this 
discrepancy to be explained, this mystery to be solved ? 


264 


ON THE RAC W. 


A grave doubt was raised as to whether the body found 
was that of Clarence Fellows. 

He scorned the idea that, because Pemberton on his 
way home, over an accustomed path, had passed the 
Union Square Hotel at one o’clock, and was found to 
be nervous and excited, his condition should be taken as 
evidence that he was fresh from Twentieth Street, where 
he had shot Fellows. Pemberton had told exactly where 
he had been and what he had done. The prosecution 
had not discredited in any way that evidence, and had 
failed to show, in however a slight degree, that Pember- 
ton had been seen in the neighborhood of the tragedy, 
while they had, upon the contrary ,*evidence that Pem- 
berton was seen walking up Fifth Avenue, as he said he 
had done. 

Everything was assumed ; the whole case of the prose- 
cution was a series of assumptions, beginning with the 
assumption of the police that Pemberton shot Fellows, 
because a revolver with his name upon it had been found, 
and ending with the assumption of the prosecution that 
Pemberton shot Fellows, because he had become angered 
on finding the dastardly, cowardly, and devilish plot Fel- 
lows had concocted against the woman whom it was his 
duty, his honor, and his blessed privilege to protect from 
harm. Of course he had been angry, he ought to have 
been angry ; he and the jurors would have been angry ; 
and if he had not, he would not have deserved the beau- 
tiful woman who had bestowed upon him her love and 
devotion, but would have been a craven whom men would 
have scorned and jeered. To hold up against him idle 
words, forged in the white heat of his noble rage, was as 
unjust as it was puerile ! 

Closing this part of his argument, he said : 

“We have no knowledge here that Clarence Fellows 


SUMMING UP. 


265 


was killed by any other hand than his own. And greater 
than that, a doubt, a fair and reasonable doubt, has been 
raised whether the body found was that of Clarence Fel- 
lows. In either event the charge against Pemberton falls 
to the ground, for if it were suicide, he certainly did not 
do the deed, and if it were not Fellows, there was no 
reason why he should.” 

Mr. Braham was no ordinary orator. During all his 
long address he had been listened to with the closest at- 
tention. The sympathies of his auditors were clearly 
with him, and he felt their influence upon himself. 

Frank listened eagerly, and as he recognized the 
strength of his counsel’s argument hope grew strong 
within his heart. Marion’s face was a study. Never, 
from the moment of his beginning until he had uttered 
his last word, did she remove her glowing eyes from him. 
Sitting upright, leaning forward slightly, with flushed 
cheeks and parted lips, her chest heaving with the ebb 
and flow of her breath, her face and eyes were responsive 
to every sentiment uttered by the orator. She was 
wholly unconscious of everything save that he was plead- 
ing with all his power for the life of her lover. 

Braham’s peroration was elaborate and truly eloquent 
— moreover it was pathetic and most effective. It was an 
appeal to the jury not to be borne away by the mislead- 
ing logic of the prosecution’s testimony, nor to be co- 
erced into a false conception of duty where so much 
doubt surrounded the case. He presented Frank to 
their understanding as a young man unstained by vice 
or dissipation, pursuing the pathway of industry, honor, 
and high endeavor, trusted by his employers, advanced 
from station to station of increasing responsibilities until 
he was made an associate in their affairs. He invited 
the closest scrutiny into Frank’s life, drawing a charming 


266 


ON THE RACK. 


picture of virtuous, light hearted, gallant, and handsome 
youth as expressed in Frank. Turning, he pointed to the 
two aged men, Frank’s partners, who had abandoned 
their affairs to watch over the test their young and trusted 
friend was enduring, waiting hopefully for those two 
words that would restore him to them again, and to the 
activities he was so well fitted to pursue, and asked if 
the confidence they displayed, the love and devotion they 
exhibited, did not count for a great deal, since they had 
known the prisoner for so many years. 

He pointed to the mother, sitting before them with 
yearning eyes and throbbing heart, who would have tes- 
tified, had she had the opportunity, that she had been 
blessed in a son who had always given her love and ten- 
derness and devotion ; that he never came to her but 
with his eyes softened with gentleness and voice drop- 
ping low with accents of respect. 

He asked the jury to contemplate the beautiful girl 
who, with a devotion rare in woman even, had sat beside 
the prisoner during all these weary and anxious days of 
the trial, sustaining him with her love and soothing him 
with her tenderness, brave and strong, proud of the love 
she had vowed, mourning that there was not more for her 
to do for him — his expectant bride, from whose arms the 
prosecution with its dangerous and deceptive logic could 
tear him. 

Nor did he fail to exhibit the rare spectacle of the pos- 
sible father-in-law, as devoted as all the rest ; nor young 
Whitney, who was elevated into a position of strong 
friendship for Frank, and he asked the jury that if this 
man were the criminal the people sought to make him, if 
he were not a strange criminal to be surrounded by such 
loving and devoted friends? Was ever such a spectacle 
presented in a court of law ? And was it possible that a 


SUMMING UP. 267 

man possessing such qualities as to win such devotion, 
could be a cool, deliberate murderer ? 

Amid the buzz following his conclusion there was 
much discussion among the lawyers. The address was 
pronounced by them, variously, as able, effective, adroit, 
ingenious, powerful, bold, original, startlingly audacious, 
a wonderful presentation of a case, which before he 
began was too weak to stand alone. 

“ He has saved Pemberton’s neck,” said one. 

“ He has sown the seeds of doubt in the minds of the 
jury pretty effectually. That is plain to be seen.” 

“ The best verdict Phillips can hope for is man- 
slaughter ! ” 

“ Three-quarters of the jury were in tears when Bra- 
ham sat down ! ” 

“ His closing was as beautiful and as pathetic as any- 
thing I ever heard ! ” 

When the district attorney arose, the hum and buzz 
subsided, and the crowd soon settled to listen. He be- 
gan with a sarcastic tender of thanks to the counsel for 
the defense for the assistance given the people in the 
statement of its case. But he stated it again and not 
more strongly than Braham had done. His manner was 
cold and dispassionate, yet earnest. His argument was 
closely woven, well and plausibly presented. He de- 
fended circumstantial evidence as being in many in- 
stances safer than that which was direct, for facts were 
inexorable, when witnesses were often weak, forgetful, or 
malicious. 

In his analysis of the testimony he contended that too 
much weight must not be given to the fact that Fellows 
had taken Pemberton’s pistol a year ago, for it had been 
loaned, not given, and there was no evidence that it had 
not been returned. He attempted to discredit the testi- 


268 


ON THE RACK. 


mony of Whitehead by showing how vague and incon- 
clusive it was. He demonstrated how easy it was for 
Pemberton to have been in Twentieth Street a few mo- 
ments before one o’clock in the morning, and yet to have 
been seen on Fifth Avenue near Forty-fifth Street shortly 
after eleven. He was sarcastic in his allusions to the 
character of the witness produced to prove the presence 
of Fellows at midnight in Market Street, and the theft of 
the watch. He made no effort to explain the mystery of 
the watches. He dwelt a long time and most forcibly 
upon the provocation Frank had received, and said that 
the very manhood of the prisoner, so beautifully pre- 
sented by his adversary, made him rush to revenge 
the charming woman whom he had vowed to protect and 
cherish. He said, most adroitly, that it was difficult not 
to sympathize with this manly and chivalric anger, until 
they reflected that in the world’s progress toward civil- 
ization and refinement they had passed beyond the 
age when appeal to force was applauded, and when 
men, killing those doing them and the ones they 
protected wrong, found their acts condoned. Society, 
wiser than it was, now provided a temple where all 
wrongs could be redressed properly and in order, and, 
jealous of this prerogative, it could not, and it ought not 
to forgive, a single instance of an individual seeking to 
redress his individual wrongs by taking life. To excuse 
one instance, no matter what the provocation was, was to 
take a step backward toward that barbarism from which 
the world had happily emerged. The counsel for the 
defense had erred in showing the intelligence, the high 
character, and the high social position of the prisoner, 
for he had shown that this man should have been the last 
one to have appealed to force for redress. His crime 
was greater by the very reason of his intelligence, for he 


SUMMING UP. 269 

knew where and how to remedy all the wrong done him 
or those belonging to him. 

He closed with a powerful and well-considered appeal 
for justice, and the maintenance and supremacy of law, 
warning the jury not to be misled by the sympathy 
which had been created for the prisoner into doing any 
injustice to society, to the laws it had created, and to the 
machinery it had erected for their proper administration. 

When Braham had sat down every one was certain the 
prisoner would be acquitted ; when Phillips resumed his 
seat, all felt that there was great doubt as to the outcome. 

“Two great speeches!” said a lawyer. “Phillips’s 
speech was a model for a prosecuting officer’s summing 
up. This trial will be memorable for the ability of the 
counsel engaged.” 

The trial was practically over. The moment of in- 
tense suspense began. Before the crowd had obtained 
relief from the strained attention upon Phillips, the judge 
arose impressively to charge the jury. 

Lowe was on his feet with a number of requests to 
charge. The judge listened attentively, and proceeded 
amid breathless silence. Marion could hear her heart beat. 

Despite Lowe’s fear to the contrary, the judge, in his 
charge, was strictly impartial, leaning neither to one side 
nor the other. 

He had nearly completed when there occurred a com- 
motion near the entrance. 

A man was elbowing his way through the crowded 
passage vigorously, indifferent to the protests of those 
he incommoded. 

This, with the efforts of the attendants to get to the 
passageway to stop the man, made such confusion as to 
cause the judge to pause and look severely to the part of 
the room where it occurred, 


270 


ON THE RACK. 


The man was one of Lowe’s clerks. 

With frantic haste he threaded his way across the 
space within the rail and gaining Lowe’s side, whispered 
in his ear. 

Lowe turned pale, then red ; he struggled to his feet 
in great agitation, and exclaimed aloud : 

“ My God!” 


CHAPTER XXIX. 


A REVELATION. 


LL eyes were turned in his direction. 



As he stood clinging to the table for support, 
swaying backward and forward in his emotion, he pre- 
sented a startling picture. 

Braham, rising hastily, stepped beside him as if to 
give assistance. So did Frank, Marion, Colonel Standish, 
and Mrs. Pemberton. 

They thought, as indeed the whole room did, that 
Lowe had been suddenly stricken with illness. 

“ What is the meaning of this unseemly interruption ? ” 
sternly demanded the judge. 

‘‘Your Honor,” stammered Lowe — but he could not 
proceed, and finished what he would say by a dramatic 
gesture of his arm, pointing to the entrance. 

A man, leading another by the hand, was seen strug- 
gling through the crowded passage-way — the crowd 
yielding before him. 

It was Tom Bryan. 

The man he was leading was haggard and worn, his 
face deeply furrowed, his eyes sunken and staring wildly, 
his clothes in tatters. 


A REVELATION. 


271 


As the two emerged from the passage into the open, 
Frank caught a glimpse of the man Tom was leading. 
He started forward and cried out in horrified surprise : 

“Clarence Fellows ! Oh, my God ! ” 

Marion had followed him, and grasping him by the 
arm, bent forward, exclaiming aloud : 

“ Mr. Fellows ! ” 

Mr. Whitney had come forward, too, and in a loud 
voice said solemnly : 

“ The dead is alive again.” 

Tom, oblivious to the sensation he had made, was 
devoting himself to the companion he was gently lead- 
ing forward, who seemed to submit himself as a child to 
his guide. 

Everybody in the room was on his feet, breathless and 
still, not knowing what it meant, but conscious of an 
extraordinary happening. 

Mr. Lowe regained possession of himself. As Tom 
reached his side, he said : 

“ Your Honor, nothing but the occurrence of an event 
most extraordinary could have induced me to interrupt 
your Honor’s charge. The improbable, the unheard of, 
the almost miraculous has occurred.” 

Laying his hand upon the shoulders of the man led 
by Tom, he continued : 

“Here stands the man, in the flesh and alive, whom 
Frank Pemberton is charged with having killed.” 

The crowded room could restrain itself no longer. It 
burst into one wild cheer, which rose higher and higher, 
women mounting their chairs and waving their handker- 
chiefs. 

The judge made no effort to restrain the excitement. 

It would have been useless. 

Marion broke down, and flinging herself upon Mrs, 


t 


272 ON THE RACK. 

Pemberton’s neck the two loving the prisoner so dearly 
mingled their tears of joy and thankfulness. 

Frank had gone to Clarence, and laying his hands on 
his shoulder, tried in vain to gain his attention. 

When order was finally restored, the judge asked : 

“ How long have you known this ? ” 

“ Not five minutes, your Honor. The information was 
brought to me while you were charging the jury.” 

“ Who is responsible for the presence of this man ? 
He seems demented.” 

“ Mr. Bryan.” 

“ Let him be sworn ! ” 

Tom seated Clarence in a chair beside Lowe, and, 
amid the intense interest of all, made his way to the 
witness stand. He was not conscious, until he had 
mounted to the chair, that Clarence had followed him 
closely and was beside him. Tom placed his hand upon 
Clarence’s arm, as if to soothe and reassure him. Clar- 
ence seemed to rely upon Tom as a dumb animal does 
upon its master. A murmur of pity and sympathy filled 
the room. 

The judge himself conducted the examination. 

“ What is your name ? ” 

“ Thomas Bryan.” 

“ And your occupation ? ” 

“ Reporter on the Sol.” 

“ Where did you find this man ? ” 

“On Long Island. Not far from the village of 
Babylon.” 

“You knew him, then ? ” 

“ I knew who he was. I doubt if he ever knew who I 
was.” 

“ Did you meet him by accident ? ” 

“ No ; I went in search of him.” 


A REVELATION-. 


*73 


" You knew, then, he was alive ? ” 

“ I can hardly say that. I heard he was, and being 
much interested in the prisoner, I started in to find if 
what I heard was true.” 

“ Tell the story in your own way ! ” 

Tom, still holding Clarence by the hand, sat upright. 
The room was so silent, no one seemed to breathe. No 
one person among his auditors knew the tale he had 
to relate, and everybody gave him undivided atten- 
tion. 

“ A few days,” he said, “ before this trial began, a man 
named Mallon, confined in the Tombs, and who I had 
befriended some months previously, sent for me to tell 
me that on the last night of the year, about midnight, he 
had seen Fellows sitting on a curb-stone in Market 
Street, near Chatham Square, where his watch was stolen 
from him. He wanted to barter this information for my 
influence in getting him out of the trouble he was 
in.” 

“ That trouble was what ?” interrupted the judge. 

“ He had used a knife in defending himself from an 
unprovoked attack from a man crazed by rum, and was 
arrested for carrying a concealed weapon.” 

“ Proceed.” 

“ This information I gave to the counsel for the de- 
fense, and upon investigation it was found to be true. 
On the first day of this trial, that is to say a week ago 
Tuesday, he sent for me again, telling me that he had 
held back further information, but that learning that 
morning that the trial was on, he determined to 
tell it all. He said that one day in the second week 
of January he was at Jamaica, on Long Island, and that 
while wandering across the fields outside the village, with 
some companions, he came upon a man, at the edge of 


274 


ON THE RACK. 


a small growth of woods, who, though ragged, startled 
him by his resemblance to Fellows. The man disap- 
peared into the woods and he lost sight of him. But 
some two hours later he came upon him again, and then 
he was certain it was Fellows. He saw the man was out 
of his mind and endeavored to engage him in conversa- 
tion, but Fellows made no reply. While thus occupied, 
a. farmer came up and' said that the man had been about 
there for several days, was evidently crazy, but harmless. 
Whereupon Mallon, saying he knew the man, told the 
farmer that he would take Fellows to the city and restore 
him to his friends. Fellows, though he would not talk, 
understood him, for he turned suddenly and rapidly ran 
away. 

“ At this time, and for some time subsequently, Mallon 
did not know that the man killed on Twentieth Street 
was supposed to be Fellows. 

“ Without a moment’s loss of time I went in search of 
Fellows. I informed no one of my errand, for I was by 
no means assured Mallon was telling the truth. I recog- 
nized that his tale was most improbable, and I did not 
wish to raise hopes that might never be realized. More- 
over, I felt I was setting out on a wild goose chase and I 
did not care that any one should know it ; but as the pris- 
oner’s case was desperate I could not let a single chance 
go. Bidding Mallon to tell no one else, I set out. 

“ I reached the house of the farmer described by Mal- 
lon, and learned first that Mallon had told the truth so 
far as meeting a crazy man went ; and, second, that 
the man had disappeared from the locality, but had 
been seen elsewhere not far distant. Thither I went, 
only to find he had gone from there and had been heard 
of in another locality. I followed, and thus I went, get- 
ting closer and closer to him, and sometimes losing the 


A REVELATION. 


275 


scent, then regaining it. Often he doubled on me and I 
went back over my own tracks. Finally I got within a 
few hours of him. Since Sunday night I have been close 
upon his heels, just missing him by an hour or two. 
And all this time I was not certain, when I found the 
man, he would be the person I wanted. Late yesterday 
afternoon I arrived at Babylon, to learn that the man I 
was seeking had been seen in the streets of the village 
that afternoon. As I was tracing him step by step, I was 
carried on his track, some miles beyond Babylon, until I 
was compelled to give up the search by reason of the 
darkness. I stayed that night at the farmer’s house 
where he had appeared and been fed at the supper 
hour. * 

“ Early in the morning, before it was fairly light, I re- 
newed my search. He was close at hand, however, and 
my search was over. He had slept all night in the cow 
house. 

“ When I found him, I also found he was the man I 
sought — Clarence Fellows ! ” 

As the result of the search was declared, an involuntary 
burst of applause came from the auditors. The judge 
angrily rebuked it. 

“It was Clarence Fellows,” continued Tom, “ out of 
his mind — a lunatic. Remembering that Mallon had 
said that when he proposed to take him to his friends 
Fellows had fled from him, I said nothing as to my pur- 
pose, but endeavored to gain his confidence. It was not 
difficult. He submitted himself to my guidance implic- 
itly, though he would answer no questions nor has he 
spoken a word since I met him. 

“The farmer drove us to the nearest station at which 
we could take the earliest train, and traveling all day we 
arrived.” 


276 


ON THE RACK. 


As Tom finished his recital, there was again a disposi- 
tion to applaud. 

“ You identify this man, then, as Clarence Fellows, al- 
leged to have been killed by Pemberton on the first day 
of this year ? ” 

“I do.” 

“ What relation do you bear to the prisoner ? ” 

“ None whatever.” 

“A friend?” 

“Yes.” 

“ Of how long standing ? ” 

“ Only since his arrest.” 

“ What interest had you to serve in making this ener- 
getic and extraordinary search ? ” 

“ No interest save that of justice.” 

[ “ But you were interested in the prisoner?” 

“Yes, in this way. I believed from the first that he 
was innocent, and that the police had started upon an 
erroneous theory.” 

“ Upon what did you base this theory ? ” 

“ Upon the man’s manner, his way of telling his story, 
his simplicity, his candor, and his frankness — largely, I 
suppose, upon my intuitions, which I never fail to 
follow ! ” 

This was said with a certain aggressiveness of tone 
and manner, causing the judge to look upon him with 
interest. 

“ And because of your intuitions you espoused the 
cause of the prisoner?” 

There was a trace of sarcasm in the judge’s tone. Tom 
answered : 

“Yes; and my chief, investigating the case, he too 
became convinced of Pemberton’s innocence, and I was 
instructed to go forward to the end espousing it, and to 


A RE VELA TIOJV. 277 

spare no expense in an endeavor to establish the 
truth.” 

“ You knew the facts against the prisoner ? ” 

“ Yes, but I knew the evidence was purely circum- 
stantial, and I know that circumstantial evidence is 
something to be suspected and avoided by all wise and 
shrewd men.” 

There was again aggressiveness in Tom’s tone. 

The judge looked at him curiously, and then said dryly 
and sarcastically : 

“ Eminent men, wise and shrewd, do not agree with 
you.” 

“ So much the worse for eminent men. They are 
dead men, caught in the tangle of their own logic, so 
blinded by their own theories as not to be able to see 
clearly.” 

“ You may go,” said the judge sharply. 

A highly wrought up audience could not refrain from 
bestowing warm applause upon Tom as he stepped down 
from the witness stand — applause leading to a threat 
that upon a repetition the room would be cleared. 

Captain Lawton was standing near where Tom must 
pass. 

“Well, Captain,” said Tom, in a low voice, “I have 
done what I said I would. I have proved Pemberton 
innocent.” 

Evidently annoyed at the reporter’s success, the cap- 
tain did not reply. 

Tom was flushed with triumph. He was arrogant 
and insolent. He stopped when in front of the district 
attorney and said : 

“ Mr. Phillips, if more people read the Sol, fewer peo- 
ple would make mistakes.” 

Then he led Clarence to a seat near the defense. 


ON THE RACK. 


278 

The judge addressed Lowe : 

“ I desire to ask counsel for the defense if they have 
those present who can identify the man said to be 
Clarence Fellows.” 

“Yes, your Honor,” replied Lowe, rising. “We have 
here Mr. Evans, the senior, and Mr. Whitney, the second 
partner of the firm of Evans, Whitney & Co., employing 
Fellows for fifteen years ; in fact, now his partners. 
Also, we have Mr. Baynum, who has been intimately 
associated with Fellows for as many years.” 

“ Put them on the stand.” 

The three were sworn and positively identified 
Clarence. 

When this was done, the court, speaking to the district 
attorney, asked him if he had anything to say. 

“ Nothing, your Honor. I am satisfied that the 
identity of Fellows has been established. I can say, 
however, that I am only too, too thankful that Fellows 
was produced before it was too late.” 

The judge rose to his feet, addressing the jury : 

“ Gentlemen of the jury : That the man supposed to 
have been killed on the morning of the 1st of January is 
alive and in court is abundantly proven. The case, 
therefore, against the prisoner, falls. He was suspected 
only because of the peculiar relation existing between 
himself and Fellows. Fellows being alive he committed 
no murder and therefore is not guilty of the crime alleged 
against him. The court has not the power to discharge 
him from custody, but it has the power to direct a verdict 
of acquittal. And it does direct you to render a ver- 
dict of ‘ not guilty.’ Mr. Clerk, take the verdict ! ” 

As soon as the formula was completed the judge said 
hastily : 


A RE VELA TIOJV. 279 

“ The prisoner is discharged and the court is ad- 
journed.” 

The excitement so long repressed burst its bounds, 
and the room rang with cheers and shouts. 

Mrs. Pemberton flung her arms about her son and 
kissed him, giving place to Marion, who did the same, 
her tears coursing down her cheeks. 

The long and anxious days had finally done their work, 
and the strain she had so long been under could no 
longer be endured. For the first time she displayed her 
emotion before Frank. So long as he needed encourage- 
ment, she was strong and brave and hopeful. When the 
joyful end came, she was weak and almost hysterical. 

Colonel Standish, Mr. Evans, and Mr. Whitney made 
no effort to conceal their joy. They shooks hands with 
Frank again and again, pounding him on the back in the 
intervals, doing everything but weep. They shook hands 
with each other, with Lowe and Braham, and, indeed, 
with every one within reach. 

Suddenly Colonel Standish thought of Tom, and found 
him in the center of the room, the hero of the hour, 
strangers and acquaintances crowding about him, and 
showering praise upon him. 

Bursting through the circle about him, the colonel 
grasped him by the arm, crying : 

“Come ! Frank wants you. God ! what a noble fel- 
low you are ! ” 

He hurried Tom before him. Frank saw Tom and 
sprang forward to him. Tears were in Frank’s eyes ; he 
could not speak, but he grasped Tom’s hand and bent 
upon him a look of intense gratitude and deep affection. 
He was far more eloquent than if he had spoken. 

Marion came, too. Tears were in her eyes, and grati- 
tude. 


a8o 


ON THE RACK. 


“ Mr. Bryan,” she said, in trembling tones and with 
quivering lips, “ next to Frank and my father I will love 
you dearly all my life. Accept me as a sister, that I may 
show you how much I will ! ” 

Mrs. Pemberton kissed him, and Tom, overcome with 
the gratitude lavished upon him, grew red in the face and 
embarrassed, and could only say, “ Thank you ! ” 

The crowd now rushed upon Frank to congratulate 
him — women and men, old and young. 

In the mean time, poor Clarence was forgotten. He 
sat upon the chair in which Tom had placed him, staring 
about, but apparently not recognizing the excitement 
surging about him. 

Frank was the first to recall him, and spoke to Mr. 
Whitney of the necessity of caring for him. 

“ Bless my soul ! ” said that gentleman. “ Yes, I will 
attend to him at once ! ” 

In the course of time the crowd passed away, and 
Frank and his friends left the room. He was cheered in 
the corridors. At the door, he found a large number 
awaiting him, and to escape them, he and his friends 
were compelled to seek another exit. 

That night the friends who had been so faithful, and 
the counsel defending him, celebrated Frank’s happy 
deliverance at a dinner at Delmonico’s, to which they had 
been invited by Colonel Standish, and it would have been 
difficult to have discovered which was considered the 
more important at the feast, Frank or Tom. 


SOL VED. 


281 


CHAPTER XXX. 

SOLVED. 

W ITH the appearance of Clarence a mystery arose. 
Who was the man killed on Twentieth Street? 

This mystery was not solved until Clarence regained 
his reason. And this was not for many months. 

An asylum was found for him, where he received all 
the requisite care and attention. His recovery was slow. 
It was believed that the insanity with which he was 
afflicted had been approaching a long time, and that, 
indeed, he was insane before the quarrel between himself 
and Frank on the day the announcement was made that 
they were to be taken into the firm. The subsequent 
events which had so disturbed him, had, in the opinion of 
his physician, precipitated a development, which, under 
more favorable conditions, would not have been averted, 
but slower in its progress. 

Under this showing it was not difficult, and indeed 
charitable, to attribute to his insanity the unreasonable- 
ness he had displayed, and also the intrigue against 
Frank and Marion he had conducted with such cunning 
in one aspect of it, and in another with such want of skill 
as to make the tracing of it to him so easy. 

It was more than a year before he was discharged 
from the asylum, and then was advised to a life of utter 
quiet, free from distraction and strife. As he had a 
competency, though small, he retired from business and 
withdrew to a country place, remote from the whirl of 
the world. 

Before doing so he solved the mystery. 

Jt appeared that he had a cousin who had been brought 


282 


ON THE RACK. 


up with him, between whom and himself there was a de- 
cided resemblance — sufficiently strong to deceive those 
who had identified the body found in Twentieth Street 
as that of Clarence, especially as they had no knowledge 
of the existence of this cousin. At an early period of his 
life, this cousin had gone into the West to live with an 
uncle. He had become dissipated, and after years of 
absence had presented himself to Clarence in New York, 
a mere wreck of his former self. 

Secretive as he was, from habit of mind, Clarence had 
concealed the presence of this cousin from all his friends. 
He cared for and befriended him, however. 

It was this cousin who had called upon Clarence at 
his boarding-house, on the three several occasions, pre- 
viously noted, and who had, on the night of the last day 
of the year, between the hours of eleven and twelve 
o’clock, gone into Clarence’s room. It was he and not 
Clarence who had been seen through the partly open 
door. The old and soiled clothes found scattered about 
the floor of the room, when it was searched by the police, 
were his. He had exchanged this suit for one of Clar- 
ence’s and thus it was that the articles belonging to 
Clarence, the letters, which had confirmed the belief that 
the body found was that of Clarence, were found in his 
pockets. 

The revolver, with Frank’s name upon it, was in the 
room, and it was believed that Clarence’s cousin took 
it then with a view to ending his life. Thus the great 
mystery was solved. 

With the restoration of his reason, Clarence looked 
with equanimity upon the loves of Frank and Marion. 
To Mr. Whitney, who had assumed care of him, he 
expressed an earnest desire to witness the marriage of 
the two, and when that gentleman demurred because of 


SOL VED. 


283 


a fear that unpleasant and disturbing thoughts and 
memories might be aroused, he replied that the affection 
which he had once thought he had entertained for Marion 
he was now satisfied had had no real existence. So he 
was present at the wedding, to Frankls great satisfaction. 

So Frank and Marion were married at last ! 

Oh yes, and the sweet, merry wedding bells rang out 
the old era of darkness, sorrow, and anxiety, and rang 
in the new era of light, joy, and contentment. 


THE END. 





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mation, to present a compendium which should be at once con- 
venient, complete, and thoroughly accurate. The book is 
written in that plain, straightforward style which distinguishes 
Mr. Grimshaw’s previous works. It is, therefore, admirably 
adapted to entertain and inform the general reader, as well as 
to serve for instant consultation by the scientific specialist. 


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“ INFINITE RICHES IN A LITTLE ROOM.” 

CASSELL’S COMPLETE 

POCKET# GUIDE# TO# EUROPE 

EDITION FOR 1892. 

Edited by E. C. STEDMAN. 
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One Volume, Leather Binding, Price, $1.50. 


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For the present issue a special revision has been made 
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mend it as a model book of its kind. 

“ It is accurate, its maps are clear and legible, and its information 
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55 


FAMOUS BOOKS BY JULES VERNE 


v M istress Branican. 

By JULES VERNE, 

Author of “ Ccesar Cascabel '''‘Michael Strogoff \ the Courier of the Czar” 
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A new book from the pen of Jules Verne is its own best advertise- 
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4 # 


A NEW BOOK BY MAX O’RELL. 


A Frenchman in America. 

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“ A Frenchman in America ” is sure of a hearty welcome. 


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By MAURUS JOKAI. Translated by Mme. F. Steinitz. 

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By EMILIA PARDO BAZAN. Translated by Mary J. Serrano. 

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47 


“ This new and dainty series.” — Current Literature. 

CASSELL’S BLUE LIBRARY. 

Beautifully bound in blue cloth, with design in gold and 
silver, $1.00 per volume. 

NOW READY. 

A CHRISTIAN WOMAN. 

By EMILIA PARDO BAZAN. Translated by Mary Springer. 

“The bright production of a brilliant and warm-hearted woman,’’ — Boston 
Saturday Evening Gazette. 

THERE IS NO DEVIL. 

By MAURUS JOKAI. Translated by Mme. F. Steinitz. 

“No one can dispute Jdkai’s power as a novelist, and ‘ There is No Devil’ is 
certainly one of the boldest and strongest of his works.” — Boston Herald. 

THE STORY OF TWO LIVES. 

By STUART STERNE. 

“Well and delicately told.” — Boston Daily Advertiser. 

A WEDDING TRIP. 

By EMILIA PARDO BAZAN. Translated by Mary J. Serrano. 

“ A thoughtful, graphic, and admirable story, not the least of its charms being 
its unaffected simplicity.” — Cincinnati Times-Star. 

“ The heroine is superb.” — New York Herald. 

THE PRICE OF A CORONET; 

Or, Jeanne Berthout, Countess de Mercceur. 

Adapted from the French of Pierre Sale by Mrs. Benjamin Lewis. 
“ A well written story.” — New Haven J6urnal and Courier. 

EDLEEN VAUGHAN; 

Or, Paths of Peril. 

By CARMEN SYLVA 

(Queen of Roumania), author of “ The Witch’s Citadel,” “ Astra,” etc. 

There is a tenderness and charm about all “ Carmen Sylva’s ” writings that 
commend them to mothers as well as to their daughters. 

THE SWAN OF V1LAMQRTA. 

By EMILIA PARDO BAZAN. 

Translated by Mary J. Serrano, Translator of “ Marie Bashkirtseff— 
The Journal of a Young Artist,” “ Morrina,” etc. 

None but books of high literary merit and of permanent value 
will be admitted to this series. 

CASSELL PUBLISHING COMPANY, 

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